Holes of War

War leaves holes in things that cannot be rebuilt- in hearts and minds, lives and life- whole generations have come up missing, whole lifetimes have passed with no end to battle.

What holes have I left? What lives have I destroyed without paying a glance? What words have I said, evils have I done that impress themselves on others' hearts? I have failed to answer so many calls, failed to grab so many hands that were outstretched to me. My grief could consume a more compassionate woman, but my heart has hardened, familiar with my failings. I maintain I have never succeeded and if I have it was not enough to fill the holes I've created.

My hands grow bloody when I sop up the mess, when I try to cover gaping wounds with nothing but a hankerchief. The blood runs downhill to the river, to where the women go to bathe their children.

Chicken Bones in Chinatown

I stepped on a bloody chicken bone on my way to work today. The crackling it made under my new Payless shoes was revolting and the stain in left on my sole, while small, was noticable. I would not mind chicken blood on my seven-dollar shoes if I were walking on a farm, or past a butcherery, but I was walking by a construction site- already made filthy by the dust cloking the breeze.

The dust gets in my eyes and mouth, a gritty salt taste left in my lips and a dump truck in the way of me and where i need to go. The black people and immigrants in the run-down houses breathe it in all the time, it coats their children's lungs and escalates their taxes.

Soon the neighborhood will look more like me. Soon there will be no chicken bones to step on.