Writhings In Red

The disquieting news

Hurries in before the sun sets.

On this thanksgiving day

Of the pilgrims that we are,

We trade writhings in red,

Some kind of a free choice

To cut away the pain of losing

The good old memories of kith

And kin in the homeland.

It is easy to say the words of sympathy

Now that you have opened up

The floodgates of that gnawing grief,

That one that draws you to darkness

That one that draws you to light

And that ability to come away

From this experience

Of cataloguing one by one

This singing in silence

This whistling in the deep night

Even as we count the dead.

After the holiday

The turkey will not come to roost.

The harvest will be bountiful

Next year, the feast

For the famished.

You can come up with

A lively list: Darfur, Manila,

Fallouja, the ancient cities

Of culture and commerce,

Those dying their own death.

Aurelio S. Agcaoili

Artesia, CA

Nov. 23, 2004

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