Cindy Sheehan

Cindy Sheehan

Look at me, George.
I’m the oncology lab report,
the malignant truth metastasizing
every time an American soldier is
injured or killed.
I’m in your lymph nodes,
your bone marrow, your lungs.

Look at me, George.
I’m the murky swamp you paddled into
three years ago.
I’m the eight-inch gash
in your canoe,
the crocodile stepping off the bank,
sliding into the water,
disappearing beneath the surface.

Look at me, George.
I’m the Joshua tree,
gnarled and spiked,
waving you into the Promised Land.
I’m the bristlecone pine two miles
above sea level,
thriving on adversity:
you can’t outlast me.
I’m the river you can’t dam,
the flood you can’t check,
the voice with ten thousand faces.

I’m the indelible blood on your hands,
George.
Take your gloves off,
and look at me.

I’m the pursuer,
and you’re the prey.

David Smith-Ferri

from his book BATTLEFIELD WITHOUT BORDERS