In Whose Custody the Flags?
The flags are at full-staff
Though Jackeline is dead
Of dehydration
And the Guatemalan boy whose name
Has not been released
Is dead
Of the flu—
They died in our custody.
The flags remain at full-staff,
Their stars going dim with grief
As refugees beg
For a glass of water
Or a dose of Ibuprofen and Amoxicillin
On the kitchen counter,
Next to the bills and Church flier—
They died in our custody.
Just after Jackeline died
But before the Guatemalan boy
Whose name has not been released,
My son Richard was born
At a world-class hospital:
8 pounds 6 ounces. Apgar score of 8;
The birth announcement on Facebook
Garnered 160 likes and 47 comments—
They died in our custody.
In whose custody are these flags?
In whose name are they raised and lowered,
Repaired or replaced, honored or disgraced?
I ask because
Jackeline is dead
Of dehydration,
The Guatemalan boy whose name
Has not been released
Is dead
Of the flu—
And they died in America.
—
(Jakelin Ameí Rosmery Caal Maquin died at the age of seven on December 8, 2018
My son was born on Saturday, December 22, 2018
The Guatemalan boy died on Christmas Eve, 2018 at the age of eight. He was later identified as Felipe Alonzo-Gomez
Written Wednesday, December 25, 2018)
In Polite Society
In polite society we hold doors open,
Say thanks and please, wear crisp
Suits when we drop bombs.
In polite society we shake the hands
Of blacks and Latinos and native peoples,
Smile as we strip them of their rights.
In polite society we wear bright jewels
Mined by slaves, decry slavery,
Tip generously.
In polite society we destroy the Earth
To make us rich, create jobs
That pay the poor to be poor.
And in polite society
We are never rude, never mean—
We murder democratically.
The Gardener
We have pitched an innocent man against the
Thousand blades of grass.
Once a week the battle is waged;
Each green sword glints with dew.
But our man is well armed: we have given
Him motors, gasoline, blades faster
Than the wind, and so he goes trampling
Because our yard needs taming:
He leaves the lawn strewn with
Wilting corpses—their rot attracts
A pair of curious bluebirds.
For the moment victory smells like sprinklers
And empty fields.
For the moment our house is in order.
Then a rainstorm soaks the earth
Like an oil-well run amok,
Wreaks havoc on gutters and sewers,
Floods the streets, knocks down trees,
Holes us up in our homes,
Where through windows we observe
Hope erase carnage.
A week passes and the proud grass
Again waves beneath the wind.
The grass has a human spirit that
Grows endlessly, sprouts from the soil,
And wonders why we bother to hire
Mercenaries to fight a war
That must never come to an end.
Andy Posner grew up in Los Angeles and earned an MA in Environmental Studies at Brown. While there, he founded Capital Good Fund, a nonprofit that provides financial services to low-income families. When not working, he enjoys reading, writing, watching documentaries, and ranting about the state of the world. He has had his poetry published in several journals, including Burningword Literary Journal (which nominated his poem ‘The Machinery of the State’ for the Pushcart Poetry Prize), Noble/Gas Quarterly, and The Esthetic Apostle.
