Seventeen

I remember the nightmare–

No, the February afternoon–

When the garden shifted for what we dream could be the last time 

It was impossible to watch such a disgusting tragedy 

But our eyes were clawed open

A moat of blood and tears formed around the small garden

The moat prepared by the kicking and screaming of strangers watching 

The absence of mercy and sanity made the flowers lose their smell 

Rushing through our heads, instead, was the scent of rusting metal and dry spit 

We witnessed an attack on a garden full of life 

Seventeen fresh petals being plucked from the flower’s center

Now never experiencing their own release 

Other petals were smooshed between crusty fingertips 

Bright colors erased

We had seen it too many times to leave it alone 

Heads turned toward the gardener as he approached the lifeless scene

Anticipation rushing through our veins as we waited for action

“Thoughts and prayers,” he said.

Those words still ring in my head.

This poem is about: 
My country
Poetry Terms Demonstrated: 

Comments

Need to talk?

If you ever need help or support, we trust CrisisTextline.org for people dealing with depression. Text HOME to 741741