Why Can’t We? by Frank McMahon

Sweat rises from the ground, oozes
Through my hair as I bend and lift
Uprooted weeds from soft, dark soil.

I find a piece of bone. Elsewhere,
Some other place or country, I
Might have asked to whom it once belonged
And if there was, beneath the spade’s edge
History asserting old claims
Upon  the present? The dead know
All about equivocation,
Denial, lines of remorseless logic.

Must they sing again their
Songs of lamentation before
We cease our fumblings
In the charnel-pit of words?

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s