Ok . . .
Ok, this is where I draw the line in the sand.
I don't even know if this is true,
But I imagine it is.
It comes with a true-enough ring to it.
Turning dingoes into time-bombs,
Animals as bombs . . .
Is this really new?
Or am I just waking up
from a dream
On the porch of a nursing
home,
And I am gagging on my
spittle
Because I'm dehydrated
and
Because the sun just
cleared the edge of the porch roof
And it is as if someone
removed my blindfold
And I find myself bound
to a stake
Facing five men pointing
rifles at my heart.
And everything just came
together for me,
In this dream about
explosive dingoes.
I'm a Native American
about to take a drink from a bottle
And I pour out the first
sip to the earth for the ancestors and
When the liquid hits the
ground it sends up a little puff of dust,
A little mushroom cloud
and
Now I am a mother giving
birth. I am my mother,
And I'm giving birth to
myself.
It's 1951
And I am horrified and
saddened
Because I am so old and
weak!
And now it is 2030
And I am a bitter old
fool warped by years and years of
Outrage and disgust with
what human beings
Are capable of. And it was all predictable!
Nothing could have stood
up to what I would witness in my life.
I think my frown is older
than my intrinsic smile.
Everyone has heard of
Nagasaki but who remembers the name of the city
That was the preferred
target that was passed over
Because it happened to be
under a cloud?
And now I am remembering
how much I loved dingoes when I was little
Because they looked like
little golden dogs.
And I am thinking, People!
You cannot be my people!
How did this happen,
That you are there,
exploding everything I love
And I am here? And I want
to slap you
Just like an abusive
father would slap his child
And I want to slap you
again and again
For the dingoes, for
bombing Nagasaki
And everything you have
done, and will do
That breaks my heart over
and over and over.
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