Wednesday, May 26, 2010

The Oil Spill

What is buried is not what we are of,
now this: the drilled earth opened and bleeding
dark, crude, thick blood, as if it were weeping
from a deep bottomless well to above.

The punctured skin opens an artery,
the cut wound spills into the old ocean,
the wide gulf between us asks it's question
over and over," Why, mama oh why...."

There are tears you cry, unexpected tears,
uncontrollable, for the loss of love,
whatever you try, nothing seems to solve
with all our might our worst fears.

Memory is a bandage just because
what's left might still remember what there was.
by Ben Gage

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