Whites

By Jed Forward

Which ill-omened sun 
Shone upon the 
Ancient skin?

Of my people:
Bleached white
The grasping hands of
Thief-hearted men 

Cover the eyes as 
Excuse-making mouths 
Spew wet filth into
The fresh-ploughed fields 
Of a young century
 
Bathed in what 
Foul moonlight 
Did this hatred ride?

Toward our coiled up lives
Galloping onwards 
To poison the blood

Maybe heart of grass
Or root-flesh
Curdled the milk?

Maybe accident contrived
To rob the warmth
And some chance to love?

To question the heart 
At leisure 
Is a game of the housed

To tarry where others rush
Is finer than a hen's tooth

Tell me it wasn't 
A choice 
To be like this
Please God