I want to write a poem

about the bodies buried in my country

without tomb-stones, without names,

or left out in the open, 

for the vultures to disgrace,

so the mothers searching for their children

can’t figure which one of those is theirs

But how can I make such a tale aesthetically pleasing?

or grotesque enough for an anthology on gore?

How could I be fair to all those tears, 

and convey everyone’s fears, 

but go beyond plain cold hard words?

Why would I dare to try and write such thing,

if everyone I care for is still here?

But what if I don’t, and I’m the one to disappear?

Who then would write a poem for me?

Should I write here their names? 

— But they would surpass the word length permitted in most magazines

and will probably break the site if they post it, or weigh too much to be supported by it — 

I’d probably leave out those not on the official government lists…

And then what?

Another nameless tombstone, a memorial for no one.

Who needs more of that?

I want to write a poem 

about the mothers, and sisters, and lovers, and brothers

who are covered in desert dust and carry a shovel

who stay at a home only lit by the indirect glow

of candles fuelled by prayers below saints of plaster.

I want to scream in a slam against the accomplices,

guiltier than the killers, betrayers of those they pretend to protect

or against the killers who are always putting a nice face

more politic than politicians, charming hungry towns with crumbs

of bread made of wheat grown 

over the land fertilized by the citizen grandchildrens’

hope, dreams and bodies.

I want to write a poem, in the rhythm of a lullabay,

to soothe the girls who lost their bodies

before they lost their lives

for them to close their eyes and remember their mothers arms

for their mothers to find peace in this lawless, hopeless land

but no amount of words would be enough

to erase the memory of men’s hands.

I’d love to write a poem, but I should start a war.