A Poem by Andrea Wyatt

This winter we stay here,
packed in crates of smashed bone
that cover the hills of Cambodia and Viet Nam, the
boulevards of Prague, the Chilean mines and vineyards—
fruit plantations of Guatemala
where men sit
outside the gates begging for bread—

of Guantanamo—the crust of blood on the Cuban coast;
My country rots away like dead flesh,
betraying history, my country,

built on the bones of slaves, eats
the bodies of her children, cages music and poetry in pens like dogs—

my country, that I will not leave—
that I cannot love—
that I cannot sleep inside of—

Your children lie piled high
beside the train depot—
in thick rubber bags—
with their names stenciled at each end—

I stand on your ruined shore—
for your enemies.

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