On Those Killing Fields.... Poem by RIC BASTASA

the scarlet soil
of the killing fields is
made fertile by the
human blood,

skeletons in the closet
are buried there
the guns are plows
and the seeds are
those of discord

names of the dead
are sprayed
tears of the widows
and fathers and
mothers
keep the salt levels
for the coco minds
to flower and fruit

the sun is made of hatred
and the moon is one deep red
disc
filled with the clouds
of distrust

mourning birds roost
on the trees where snakes
are always ready
to eat what is alive
and weak.