Another Verdict For the Suspected Genocide Lady

Misael Osorio

It’s a frantic desperation that compels our limbs to go
it will remain indelible her name would be spelled in smoke
inconceivable undertaking though there are no predictable horrors
now to disturb your sleep having seen the bodies of our parents
mauled by police dogs dragged through the streets of Prague.
our heroes and our foes though we the actors of our history
in bold strokes perhaps bound to fail because of catastrophic errors
in our genes like for instance the fumbling of the nation’s will.
the boys couldn’t look at you in that sense of wonder anymore
but as that acidic foaming at the mouth in the clear signs of desire
nauseating frantic dizzying or not brailleric in its song of dots
discovering how beauty has a corrupting quality of bluish poison
and in any case every energy is wasted
in the convulsing waves of laughter
that mysticism that comes with age
and we don’t have to plan our holidays according to the seasons
we could take a dancing trip
if that were to happen we could even lose our fright
we could tour the golden fields of Troy
during the harvest of the wheat
and clouds will roll in clusters
and it will be like an exploration of our shared consciousness
and it will be found
that all experience can be created out of songs
and so that is the reason this song is Gregorian
and this piece is classical
and this song has no name
and this name has no numbers one
writes of the trains
and the forced marches just like that
and the days of hunger and the days at sea and the fireworks
and the triumphal entries and the noise of cannons
confused with the noise of celebration
and the broken bottles and the sticky floors.
in one moment, all the memories of rain which people tend to overlook
or simply ignore because there is light and sound to hold our attention
come rushing in like a roaring typhoon
and a lady with her little dog waltzes in
to do me a great mercy
claiming to know the secret’s in the black book
of how to choose the sick the weak among our fellow wolves
a well-meaning mother that is correct not like the others
those rustic symbols of power in a set of graceful movements.
if someone were to send her voice wrapped in cellophane
and dry foliage i would dare not see her face because the pages would
frighten me with their black and white rumble
this is all i know: that it would be like learning a new language
a small kindness after all that would be to have seen
those horrors to have felt the hand of destiny
pulling and pushing away because otherwise she could not
do anything useful but we judge nonetheless
what could she have done?
this is the reason why we don’t
the events caught up with us and we are all touched
by a monstrosity just like that casually.

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