Poem Beginning With A Line By Robert Duncan
It is across great scars of wrong
that nothing is ever righted.
Feel the bumpiness of the tissue,
go back to when it was wide open,
the blood pouring forth,
the pain as real as real can be.
First thing we try to do
is stop the bleeding,
wrap it with pieces of cloth torn off
from a T-shirt, a skirt,
put pressure on the wound,
rush the victim to the hospital.
Yet, how can you treat a whole race?
Sure, the wound is just a scar now,
but the perpetrator appears to be our own nation.