Yet I go on. Trading in kilobytes, adrift,
an ocean of pixels swimming with captive life
spread before me, a million gifts, daughters
of her tradition, this men have slaughtered other men
to have, when all they really want lies within.
Fathoming this is tricky arithmetic, no anchor
twain living indifference and some other
shoreline, the geography of her, my skills
at description will prove flat, imagine a world
other than that your hands have held and live there.
Imagine a world in which you remember
each face, in which to bear witness, you are
not the appointed perjurer, but must tell instead your portion
of the truth, I was snatched and cannot remember
more than that. I was only doing what I was
told. I want to go back home now, I do.
This drifting ship’s hold is tight, piracy, its trade.
Flesh, my cold currency, is good, not gold, and gave.
Author Discusses Poems