Bucha
Witness
To witness means to see, to say
I have seen houses shorn in half,
their intimacies on display,
the wind shoving within to root about
pink insulation clinging to walls
like lungs,
trees made ragged, splintered
bodies on the road, men
once men now meat burned black.
To witness means to see, to tell
of pulverized worlds
where body bags slide neatly into pits,
and those who serve brutes
wear eyes on edge, waiting
for the dark cars
to disgorge men
in dark coats come
to batter at their doors.
To witness means to see, to say
I will not turn an eye away
from fearful soldiers, uniforms torn,
hunchshouldered under blows, spreadeagled
in the dust, or women
clothes askew, weeping at borders
and beasts sauntering along ruined boulevards
relieved to be alive.
To witness means to see, to tell
of my own malice that cries out
for demons to die,
that engines an iron part of my heart
to beat in salvos to bless their suffering,
that confesses if given every key to his kingdom
I might stalk its length
leaving pools of blood in my wake.
