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Sean Swain Poem
If ever beckoned by the broken glass
I offer instantly these scarred hands
And bleed
Embracing sharpest, cruel edges,
most exquisite lines
And bleed
upon piercing, jagged, penetrating points
brilliant with dancing sunlight
And bleed
poured out into a universe benign, hard surfaces
warm in crimson puddles of all I was
And stand
And bleed
And know then –
Broken glass does not love back.
Copyright © Sean Swain | Year Posted 2007
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Sean Swain Poem
The nurse ordered her to push, push, push
in her best proper voice
and linen balled in red fists knotted
and sweat falls from red face knotted
while Billy, head first, tugged and yanked by nurse's proper hands,
emerges, gently laid upon the blood soaked sand
motionless in the sulfur haze, almost well-behaved
amongst the rifle clatter and bewildered screams -
get down! get down! get down!
while Billy breathes slowly, undisturbed,
his eyes closed with new mom
gently caressing matted, cark curls,
her fingers, no longer knotted, extended,
Billy's tiny hands and infant fingers
grip the plastic ribbing
around the rifle barrel smeared in stickiness that flows out
from below Billy and onto sand, puddling, his lips chapped and parted,
suckling as new mom exhausted weeps
in relief of two arms and two legs and everything okay
as she holds him, hurting for him,
everything that might happen,
everything that will happen,
and she drifts off to slumber,
mother and child peacefully spent
in soft pretty colors
and the soft murmur of the television as the sedan
with government plates at the curb
and a Marine in dress blues (Oh, God) stands plastic in the doorway
and uses his best proper voice (Oh God, not Billy, Oh God)
to regretfully tell her,
and uses surprised hands to catch her when her legs
regretfully cannot hold her
and she sobs on the floor like a mother who outlived her son,
exhausted as the day Billy was born.
Screw this war.
Copyright © Sean Swain | Year Posted 2006
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Sean Swain Poem
I was born in freedom’s graveyard
‘neath a tombstone where my name scarred
the edifice, cold stone and bone hard,
wrapped was I in burning flag.
An empty stomach, angry, held tight
Another hand to clutch the long night
Another head fixed ‘twixt the gun sight
Just one more toe to tag.
Raised by ashes in dirt and dust
cutting teeth then flesh on rust
they send to teach me what is just
the oppressors’ fists to kiss me.
And when I drink their awful wrath
kicked down that darkly chosen path
I’ll see it boils down to math –
how many I take with me.
Copyright © Sean Swain | Year Posted 2006
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Sean Swain Poem
See how grows the green, green grass
where we wave our stars and stripes.
And some still question our intent
to bring that dark-skinned Muslim boy
freedom and American sneakers.
What rolling hills and shady trees
our dropping bombs shall make.
See how sunny the blue, blue skies
where we wave our stars and stripes.
While some yet mock out prosthetic limbs
underneath American sneakers.
What lovely schools and spacious homes
our rolling tanks shall bring
See how flow the clear, clear streams
where we wave our stars and stripes.
And who can doubt our selflessness,
our open hands on rifles pointed,
our widening smiles and fair market prices.
What arable land and lovely yards
their flowing blood does feed.
See how grows the green, green grass
where we wave our stars and stripes.
Copyright © Sean Swain | Year Posted 2006
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Sean Swain Poem
As I wandered broken stumbles
slips and falls and crawling muddy
from this place I beheld a mountain
and the mountains moved me.
So, this fragile life, empty and long,
I filled with dirt and rocks and stone
and carried by bucket load
in callous hands and gnarled fingers
screaming protest of fragile life
too abrupt to move a mountain.
But this bucket worn and battered
swears its oath upon all that will be
that I shall move this mountain
before again it shall move me.
Copyright © Sean Swain | Year Posted 2007
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