The Murderous Sky

Rosemary Daniell

With bloodied breasts    Magritte's
birds fly upside down    amid
rocks    against just such cobalt
a sky as killing as this one.
Yet this is not crazed canvas
the outback or a veld    but
Exit 68    off I-95    South
Florida    Fahrenheit 106. . . .

Yes    this is Amerika
land of the Golden Arches
of Waffle Houses    of melting
margarine    of time shares sold
over glittery formica
of Corvettes    Camaros   blazing
like comets down ribbons
of asphalt. Where I too speed
The Book of Virtues   spinning
on cassette    the miles silver
beneath my wheels. And here
into this land of the sun
come these two wretched ones --

burnt flesh served up on the plate
of the dry earth.   One staggers
barefoot    curls matted    skin
smeared as black as an aborigini's
up the embankment. And then
his companion in this hell:
too brown    too thin    half-clothed
bent over a piece of cardboard. . . .
And all I can think is,
what if one of them had
been you? Dear God, what
if one of them had been you?