Mark R Slaughter (1957)

I lost my arm, a leg; the head
Of once my brother fell to me.
I caught it with a scream caressed with
Bowels, anointed with our blood –
Arterial – of crimson zest –
Ethereal in oxygenation.

My mother whined a haunting dirge
Of ‘Why? ’ and ‘Will this never end? ’
I answered with my bluing lips
And gurgles of antiphony.

Dying in our agony,
We make a sorry nation.




Copyright © Mark R Slaughter 2010










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