“To slow an animal
You break its foot with a stone”
They arrive like sailboats,
skirting the wheat fields
with weary, tattooed feet.
Their tongues spill broken riddles,
but on the acidic, smoke wind,
a tragedy is whispered.
They passed through the mountains,
carrying their perfumes,
and discovering new ways
to carry their dead.
We cry, but then a story
We show them the cornstalks, white stones.
They touch the plants
with their burnt fingertips,
and offer gifts:
tamed fireflies, seeds that sprout in droughts—
we are not interested.
In the evening, they whistle for ghosts,
breathe out the sunset, and plow fields with oxen.
A little girl dances with a little boy.
Do we occupy the same space?
Or do we remain sovereign, pure?
They fill their scars with indigo
(since they are all doctors),
and always know the right medicine—
burning dandelions, dizzy smoke,
the smell invades our wooden homes
and ruins what we know.
The medicine, they say, is for the mind,
for the heart, and soul.
Their medicine makes them sick,
but it makes them forget.
Our doctors cannot do that.
We cannot control the wind
or the circumstance.
Only how, sweet honey, drizzles
on sweet bread,
and how fire burns so quickly,
The killing begins at dawn,
or perhaps night.
Throats of their oxen,
dragons and pets, slashed
with carving knives.
The burning begins at noon.
First with their white linen and then
their burlap sacks of preserved memories.
Eventually the same color, same value.
After the smoke clears,
shoeprints of ash.
We stand to attention,
burn in shame for our cowards,
but still do not cry when the nomads
leave with the wind,
to the next unwelcome place.
To slow an animal, you break
its foot with a stone.
To break humans
requires more thought, and careful
attention to detail.