Gacela of False Patriotism
Dancing Bear, J.P.
The wolves are running with blood in their mouths
My friends have disappeared like wolves in shadows.
They pant rhetorically in the shadows of war,
their breath makes a hot anthem of fear and hate.
The march of green boots on my street, the rifles, the rifles.
The rifles cradled like babies arms to a blue crib.
They’ve built yellow barricades at the ends of my street.
I say the word love before the background of their prayers.
I say the word God before the background of their flames.
The marching green boots devour the purpled landscape,
beating the landscape like wheat to reveal our new enemy.
The devil hides in a house. The devil hides in the street.
The devil pounds his feet on the black asphalt.
The devil finds shelter in unwitting hearts.
The orange light of flames dies on the faces of the houses.
The light dims to a shadowed quiet inside these houses.
All night the wolves throw shadows on our faces.