by John Sweet
this smooth warmth like
eggs left in sunlight
this sunlight warm like bodies
bloated along the river’s edge
like the ones that choke it,
five thousand or more, and the
priests with their bulldozers,
always on the side of justice
the women screaming, or the children,
as the doors of the church are
barricaded
as the fires are set
call it a war if you want, but it
doesn’t concern you if it
doesn’t concern your president
the land there doesn’t bleed oil,
the empty fields don’t give
birth to factories
poverty is never a virtue
shallow graves are nothing more
than what some of us deserve
open your bible to any page
and it will tell you the same
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