September Poem of the Month by Rob Ferris
Guerillas by Rob Ferris
Still camouflaged from the air
the guerrillas are dead in a glade.
Birds and conservative creatures
diminish them.
In cocoons of dappled cloth
their bodies pupate backwards
while images crawl away
alive on a cameraman’s back.
In the forest
they fade by fragmentation
their flesh maintaining
sun drenched birds
rehearsing siren
trumpet calls:
the music of
historical necessity
that placed them
in this shade.
Ideas swarm and die like bees,
steel wobbles and rushes
through leaves.
Fruit of revolutionary change
falls and dries
in the sun.
In villages, men’s mothers
lie awake
and make them brothers.
