Tatalon, 1986

Bless the orange bud that blooms in the dark—

It rends the flesh of hunger

With its interminable point of sharpness,

Like candleflame that tapers off

In a cloud of soot, the point almost invisible.

The bud that blossoms from the tip of stem of metal

And tears both smile and surprise from the face

Of innocence, from the startled sleep

Of a child getting ready for school,

The adolescent roused by the mother

To do laundry or fix breakfast.

The sowing of that seed came from unknown faces

In the dark, the flowering of that death

Watered by the guttural grunts of men

And motors in the dawn, stamp of boot

On fragile door of cardboard and wood scrap,

Gleam of buckles and faint sunlight

On olive-drab and camouflage.