The New Nation

The New Nation

The New Nation

For this our blood spilled
on lichen-grizzled rocks.
Iron-scented tracings
freshly mark the landscape;
fragments of bone
earthbound before their time.

The soles of our feet curl
like burnt parchment
against your hot irons;
the skin on our backs patch-worked
by your crude tailor’s hand,
remaking us in your own image.

Our bruised faces swell
around our watchful eyes
     waiting    waiting
while your manhood
swells with pride
at its ill-begotten prize.