Pricked
by the image of winking killers with
guns held aloft, I open
to a fiercer version of myself:
I am storm winds, I am plague, war,
and famine, swallowing up men, spitting
out their bones— I bring you peace, I say
to the quiet ones,
whose armour,
whose camouflage,
whose fleet-footedness,
whose wily ways are no protection against
a high-powered rifle,
a machete,
and a chainsaw.
In a deep canyon with a river flowing through it,
where no human ever found
a foothold, killers ride in on
tearing wheels,
tearing wings— they kill
the peace, their eyes shining
with triumph.
