Literature and Art

This rocking chair sits empty

rocking back and forth,

where no echo should be

all I see are ghosts:

those yet to be,

those who will not be,

and those who no longer are.

And why you lewd creature,

foully-made abomination,

an exception to his divine creation,

a rotting cancer in the brain.

Unrecognizable to ours,

we were never in your litter,

our blood's only connection

is of the vile mixture left behind—

—of your zombie boys,

the ones you opened season on,

when you opened fire

on our home.

Do not ever call us brothers,

for blood could never

leave us orphaned, widowed,‘gone’

shelling aimed true,

to as you spew:

“liberate us from our liberty.”

I admit claim to this daydream:

of your violent dormancy.

after seeping in atrocity:

A child in a stretcher

leaves her father, be the bearer.

A child in a stretcher

I can’t forget her.

Some of the time

I think of weapons

and then,

of all the toxic waste

that spurs and poisons

state and

land and

taste—

that toxic waste,

that should be shot to space,

along with the foully-made

abomination,

that exception to his

divine creation.

By: Veronica Taranova