Toxic Cylinder
Mom, they want to bomb
holes in my aura,
they fucked our men at war:
your husband, my father,
your brother, my uncle.
They’re bombing Iraqi children with plutonium.
Bumblebees can’t hardly kiss nectar,
the world is awry.
I came a long way
from bearing a child
my two-time denial scream
then the ultimate screech,
No way Jose,
we live in a toxic cylinder
where martyrs have
no good reason to live.
Not complacent, but I sit,
sip tea in my condo in America,
I have a man, a passport, a beater car.
A single white woman hanging onto a job
my nails scrape cement, but I carry on.
It’s enough already, enough
it’s good, good enough
I breathe, pay my bills, stand on my head,
have caller ID.
An all American white girl
not complacent being fucked
so they better leave me the fuck alone.
Julene Tripp Weaver (website) has a chapbook, Case Walking: An AIDS Case Manager Wails Her Blues, based on her work in HIV Services. A poem from this chapbook was featured on The Writer’s Almanac. Her poetry has been published in many journals and anthologies, including Main Street Rag, The Healing Muse, Knock, Arabesques Review, Nerve Cowboy, Arnazella, Crab Creek Review, Pilgrimage and Letters to the World: Poems from the Wom-Po LISTSERV.
More power to ya! (which does not corrupt. You used it well! Thank you.)
powerful!!
This one packs a punch, Julene. Wow!