Puppets

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®

Puppets

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