Biafra

Biafra. Biafra. Biafra. Small stock of compassion grown in us (when we would let it by photos of napalmed children gives out: expended saying Viet Nam, Viet Nam: trying to act to end that war. Now sluggishly we turn pages: photos of children dying in Biafra. Dull accumulation of overdue statistics: Massacre of the Ibos. It happened already Now more of the same. The poisoning called 'getting used to' has taken place: we are the deads: nerve-endings used up: no room in us for love: the little left from before changes to bile, brims, spills over: stain on the cushion: and the news from Biafra (doesn't make the headlines, not in today's paper at all) doesn't even get in past our eyes.

2

Biafra, Biafra, Biafra: hammering the word against my breast: trying to make room for more knowledge in my bonemarrow. But seeing only coarse faces grinning, painted by Bosch on TV screen as Humphrey gets nominated: then, flash, eyes in a skull, patient sadness: photo of Biafran boy (age 5?) sitting down to die: and know what to do: do nothing: