issue 26 > poetry > bita

Look at you!
Bent in shame.
carrying a change
of panties, a calculus
of your period
so the conqueror's seed
won't take root
in you. Your contribution
to the resistance.

Of course you know
you've lost the right
to any name but traitor,
whore, worse if worse
can be. You've given sex
for a full belly,
medicine for the sick,
whatever excuses
betrayal makes. You'll say
you've saved those
who'd rather bear death
than disgrace, but weren't
asked. The verdict's out,
no need for trial. Friend
or foe, the jury's all one.
With upraised hands,
the shears approach.
They rip. Shiny with laurel,
slick with rainwater,
the dark curls slide
along the blade, the skull's
not spared, a red anointing,
the dark drops
falling on the island's stones,
the pitiless stones.
No one speaks.
Justice, say the stones.
Justice.






Also by Robert Zaller:

The Houdini Poem
Hamlet in Eden
The Truth of Islands