In Search of the Quiet

Written by: Sheri Fresonke Harper

I’m tilling to forget that night 
of fire and betrayal.
Turning the soil over, over and over,
over days months eons.

Waiting to be fed when belly
aches with hunger and thirst.
Did you have to poke out my eyes?
Make me remember silk?

I am a thousand fists shaken
in night sky. I am broken
on gravelly field, a puzzle, 
my boiling blood walked off

left me skin stretched under hot sun
bleached bones poke out.
The others walked off in disgust
when you left us without.

Once our riverside hideout
let us launch our toy ships,
rode bubbles, slid over rock
churning fast and away...

The baby down pasted nest no
longer holds us inside,
too noisy, cramped in quiet spots	
by sea, beg drown sorrow.

I’m tilling to forget, turn soil
over and over, hope to eat,
hope the fire that escaped our soil
hope it was just a dream.

Hope you didn't steal our resources,
steal all our heritage.
We have no future echoes loud
down the halls of lost time.

We did the tilling that launched you
into a tomorrow. 
There you are, sailing free, happy.
We remain. Left behind.