Harvest

They're there
reeds bending beneath
the unforgiving weight of the sun
fishing fruit from the fractured ribs of the earth
as their own bones unravel within them.

Here
Here and here
You can measure the marks left
by indescribable pain
See the geography of cruelty
a topographical map cut into each of their bodies
So that even in their sleep, they cannot escape.

And here
here and here
We sit harvesting discourse
in ergonomic designed office chairs
writing protest letters on our computers
promising to mail them in the morning
promising to do "all we can"
promising promises without end.

Words evaporate in the mid-morning heat
Words fester in the infected blister-split-lip smile of a child
who dreams not of playing in water but drinking it
drowning in it
Until his throat
the cracked, parched Earth
finally gives way.

Our gaze is caught
in the television religion of SUV's and privilege
worrying over rising gas prices and summer vacations
while the "third world" collapses on the front lawn of the White House
dead from heat exhaustion
holding a petition in one hand and a bag of produce in the other.
But the media's one good eye is focused only in the direction of Mecca
The other eye was blinded long ago by a sky full of neon light.
The media's voice was lost while trying to speak a language
it did not understand
and the hands over its mouth kept it from asking why?

They're there
trees without sustainable, nurtured roots.
Trying so hard to pick democracy's fruit
before it withers and rots on the vine.