A first step, and they walk among the sleepers
Through the narrow cracks, the mud
With the onionskin; their nostrils breathing
Heavy in the dark thickets of internment camps;
Faces pale as death in a white mist of hate.
And they turn in a cold bed sweat,
Casting their bodies, their masks like amputations
Into silver buckets, poured down a drain
In a morgue littered with puppets.

The old, the young separated from families,
No maps to trace a face shoved into
The white spit crawling like a flattened snake,
Skins and a slide in a slimy trail,
Poisoning immigrants like Eden’s navel
Twisting a mind; and the green apple water
Choking a throat to nothing
In a swallow. Stiffens a body and their
Color bleeds brown, dead in a flow.

Their captors have nothing to be sad about,
Staring at victims with hoods of bone;
Every immigrant coiled, folded into a profit.
Litter the pliable banks with vermilion green;
Elected officials whose mouth’s unhinge with the
Odor of racketeering— white maggots coil
Thin as knives in the dark bruises
Of innocent lives. Their belly-scales fat as tongues
In a lecher’s kiss; forked and devilish.

Copyright © 07/28/18 lance sheridan®


15 comments on “Puppets

  1. Barbara Kasey Smith says:

    Lance, time and time again you give us great poetry, each one with images many readers would never dream of using but yours explode to great imaginations of bringing your writings to life – you’re an ACE, that’s what you are – this is remarkable!!! Bartb:)

  2. I’ve read a few of your poems – you do a great job! You are an excellent writer

  3. ortensia says:

    Excellent. I love it😊

  4. A stinging indictment: “Elected officials whose mouth’s unhinge with the
    Odor of racketeering…” Well done.

  5. Dorianna says:

    Your words always have such strength and amazing imagery…they just spring into life.

  6. Hi Lance😊
    This is a very disturbing poem of an atrocity that should never be forgot.
    This is heartbreaking to even imagine. I know poetry speaks to each individual. The interpretation may vary.
    This poem tells me: Puppets are mere images of people. Without humanity, their captors see them as mere images that appears as unreal as puppets.
    I felt such sadness as I read the honesty in your words.

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