by George Dickerson
When children of the desert are starving,
They crave far more than wafers of sand.
Their bellies are crypts where war's gargoyles growl.
No fish swim the fonts of their fly-gummed eyes
When hunger's thistles stitch them shut.
Their husks of voices are shucked-off choirs.
Their fingers are harps for the empty wind.
They will eat anything. They will eat tomorrow.
For them, the sky's a scoured bowl.
Oh, God, my indifferent God,
Witness how cold, how far the stars
Are flung from their scavenged dreams!
The bones of heaven are long sucked clean.
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Copyright ©:
2000, Rattapallax Press
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