Pablo Luis González

On her watchful ears words are dropped,
some sailing from across the seas,
others crawling from these shores;
none marching as if in a parade.

​

‘History will absolve us!’ hisses the radio,
ta ta, the grey plastic now lays silent,
to cover it up she tried,
as she does with her toilet.

​

She wears the posture of a raven,
scavenging the world below she does,
perched all in black: a fly flies no more,
yet she never dons dresses of steel.

​

A man clad in depleted uranium says

 

‘Ratatata!’

‘Drop dead, I am a machine gun;
a soldier, that is what I am.’

‘Oh no!’

​

she says,

 

I will not.’