Cora McLelland
A Card
how
often is enough...
What
do you mean, love?
I
see the blue –
the
orange fruitful tree –
O
we would, swimming,
cross
the waters of the bay –
o
you say, nay, we didn't
for
it was off limits all those years
And
you shed tears, forever feeling shame
that
from an island paradise
the
Yanquis carved a slice –
The
band
plays
saddening tunes
The
city, behind wire,
so
barbed and cruel
that
guards who are for hire
remain
untouched by grief
that
others, clad in khaki uniforms
inflict
on those unknown:
a
teenage boy, an old one who survived
how
many simulated drownings?
Freezing
cold at night,
when
they poured icy water on his body
betting,
laughing, shouting, roughing up
And
who would give a damn if anybody died...
O
yes, there was a man; they sentenced Kipriakou
when
he informed the liberal paper in New York...
He
got a taco with
cheese
and beef and lettuce
from
the journalist
He
told him everything and handed him
the
card
of
a colleague who tortured wantonly.
He
was so free. The journalist
was,
too; he went and missed
to
pay the taco and the price
that
Kipriakou, when the dice was thrown,
would
own the government of the United States.
For
those who tortured and who killed
though
sentenced, soon were free
The
judge, the prosecutor hates
the
liberty of conscience that
a
brave man showed
Was
it some twenty years or more
that
they allowed
the
prison system
to
take charge of John?
I
wish
he
had it seen
a-coming
and
was on the run.
2014
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