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Stand behind the Dead

Stand behind the Dead X U E D I We saw the end. The sun rose. What did it look like in your eyes? I stare at you behind the dead. I ask: why did we die today. Bullets ripped the moving crowd. You said what I wanted to say. You live. You see a race. His yellow face is like a lone grave in the wilderness. Dark. We saw brothers and sisters. They walked with you. Time left you. Time at that moment was with us. Our flesh was ground into clay. The murderers made the flower shapes you're holding from our bones and brains. Stop those incessant unmeaning words those mournful songs those brazen cruel words like "murderers." Don't talk. Your being alive makes us more depressed each day. We grow in the dark. Our weight will finally settle into a way of life. Our hands will reach out in the air and scratch the country's face. Not for revenge. Not for a moment of youth. We die, you live. Whatever you say in our direction poets can see. Poetry can prove that our flesh clings to the ground. Lying down, we bore the heavy force of our lost imagination. http://www.deepdyve.com/assets/images/DeepDyve-Logo-lg.png Manoa University of Hawai'I Press

Stand behind the Dead

Manoa , Volume 12 (1) – Apr 1, 2000

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Publisher
University of Hawai'I Press
Copyright
Copyright © 2000 University of Hawai'i Press.
ISSN
1527-943x
Publisher site
See Article on Publisher Site

Abstract

X U E D I We saw the end. The sun rose. What did it look like in your eyes? I stare at you behind the dead. I ask: why did we die today. Bullets ripped the moving crowd. You said what I wanted to say. You live. You see a race. His yellow face is like a lone grave in the wilderness. Dark. We saw brothers and sisters. They walked with you. Time left you. Time at that moment was with us. Our flesh was ground into clay. The murderers made the flower shapes you're holding from our bones and brains. Stop those incessant unmeaning words those mournful songs those brazen cruel words like "murderers." Don't talk. Your being alive makes us more depressed each day. We grow in the dark. Our weight will finally settle into a way of life. Our hands will reach out in the air and scratch the country's face. Not for revenge. Not for a moment of youth. We die, you live. Whatever you say in our direction poets can see. Poetry can prove that our flesh clings to the ground. Lying down, we bore the heavy force of our lost imagination.

Journal

ManoaUniversity of Hawai'I Press

Published: Apr 1, 2000

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