22 March 2007
The abused want freedom to breathe.
The winter sunlight is sharper
in the desert
but the nights are always cold.
You taste sand in your mouth.
In the streets of the city, cutting angles in traffic,
the taxi driver is an aging gangbanger.
Sometimes the past is prologue.
Walking across Broadway,
you watch the world from the crosswalk.
The taxi swerves a moment too late
and a woman hits the pavement.
Blood flows on the asphalt.
The underlying principles
are rarely self-evident.
You remember a friend, a relative, a lover
taken in the middle of the night, in darkness.
Torture is rabid, acrid, acid, relentless.
The red hot impressions remain, burned in the brain
and in the flesh.
Looking at the slow motion accident --
Isn't it always an accident? --
in a momentary flash, an epiphany:
it isn't a friend, a relative, a lover
© 2007, Satya J. Gabriel