Chicano Poet

Thursday, February 03, 2005

Like Prisoners Of War

The H looks good
on the hillside of the room,
hemoglobin running

through the crossbeams,
the elevated train
rattled the snow loose.

Mr. Bones sat for a portrait
by Norman Rockwell,
behind him out the window you could see

the loosened snow.
Snowflakes tortured
like prisoners of war

in this and every war.
Mistress Bradstreet lies in bed.
She looks like a flower,

each petal a rose,
and if you look close,
every shade of red is represented.


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