I See The Faces Of The Dead

I see the faces of the dead,
Earnest in public domain,
Death broadcasting, networked
From screen to screen to screen,
No holes barred.

Burst under fame, instantly
Removed in time and space,
Inoperable, twisted
Like DNA.

Still, murky in uniform,
These figures reproach enough
To cross a yawn stripped
Of options.

What attack by tracers of despair
Thirty-six years since he left.
Newcomers welcome, lost boys,
Serious men, silky girls,
Mothers, even.

Survivors cannot, do not
Think how to absolve yourself.
Dare you say it again, how
This happened:

Al Quaeda and Iraq converge
By what hands to destroy
Uneasy peace amid the
Obedient, unwilling
To curb despots?

We hunker under shadows,
Our nightmare beliefs lighting
With conjecture and hirsute
Supposed fact.

With due respect, among those
Spurning legitimacy,
Who of our kind spots blackest
Crimes, relishes laissez-faire
Complicity, wills silence,
Handmaids desire?

by Florence N. Johnson