Ghosts

I am.

I am here.

Brothers, sisters, lovers, hear me, for I am here, born of the year of the dragon of the month of the lion, Leo, the day of the atomic bomb in Japan.  You can hear me roaring, louder than they.

Roaring who said it was okay to bury a child in the sand?

She was a girl, like me.

They thought to silence her with dirt and soiled tradition,

But they are the people who walk like zombies in the absence of the light,

Since I,

And she,

Come back to haunt them in the dark sweat

Dark regret

Of the night.

Heartbeat,

Fresh meat,

Listen to me speak.

I will not listen

To the frail glass-edged voices of the women on T.V.

Whose only lines are to ask when are you coming to bed, I bet

You wish true women

Were as correct.

There are some who will say all men are monsters

While some will say all women are meek.

Unintelligent.

Asleep.

But I say whether the coffins in our backyards

Are pink or blue,

Murder is murder and silence

Is suffocation, and further

On--is death.

But death, you say,

Is more than okay.

March On

There will be days
when the tire blows
and the sky feels wet
and the baby is covered in milk

There will be days
when the money's gone
and the glass is broken
and the snow is a grayish thing

Hope is the feather still fine and soft
Floating out of the house fire
Hope is the line etched into your palm,
There since the day you were born
Hope is the star still in the sky
when day comes

March on.