I could be you could be me.
Washing my body privately in the shower
feeling safe and protected/violated and
ripped apart.
I could be you could be me, cooing
my baby to sleep in a safe and protective collective settlement/butchered, beheaded bleeding corpses piled up
in sacred living spaces.
I could be you could be me, ecstatically
dancing for peace, so free, so free-shot-in-the-head,
in the neck, in the heart.
Bleeding to death. What about the dance?
The forest beckoned with her vast emerald outstretched arms
“Love, dance and leave all your troubles behind.”
So we – yes, you and me – and countless
other yous and mes drove down to the south
of our beloved land with hopes so high, hearts so full,
faces open, to be raped and ripped and splayed and hacked
and chopped and burned like a game that hunters, butchers
and serial killers love to play.
This could be you could be me, for we are one in life and death.
The quotidian and the obscene lie face to face.
Embracing life and beauty and loving deeply,
lie murdered and mutilated by the haters of light.
It could be me could be you.
Many charred embers are whispering
“Dance for me, love for me, live for me,
For I am you.”
