Soft pink dress
sash undone around her waist
it floats in the river breeze
as she twirls,
a little cherry blossom
drifting in the twilight sun.
When she chitters
to herself
does she talk to God?
I know someone
who starves herself
raging and skeletal
for such talk.
Does she hear you?
Do any of us?
Whisper to the children, Lord,
if men will not listen,
instead dragging
metal carcasses
of death
across the Steppes
where Cossacks once roamed.
Whisper to the children
when women bleed in stirrups
duct tape terrorized
frothing, seething, mad, silenced.
Whisper to the children,
when the Bible Men
gerrymander word nooses
to snap the neck
of truth.
Whisper to the children!
We teach them again
to hide under desks
when nothing will save them.
Whisper to the children!
Tell them your mad truths,
antic enlightened gibberish!
Gossip to them
nectar streams of impossible love.
Oh, joy,
like a lightning bug
trapped for a moment
in time’s cupped hands.
The children will listen. They will hear you!
They will turn their beaming faces to you,
when the world explodes,
not with a bang,
but a whisper.
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Welcome to the live read of "Down Chuska Mountain" by Jeffrey Delano Davis. The reading will take approximately 35… https://t.co/htJqfb19gH