Dedication To Those Unfairly Undone
They are so real, the murdered girls.
by Lisa Zaran
Bent statues, fallen on their backs.
Gone. It is a wild and unexplainable
world, that so many women could meet
their final monster and become dead.
With all life's memories erased, as if
they never existed at all. And on
the concrete they lie and on the desert
floor. In gutters their eternal form
remains nameless, spreadeagled they lie
with mother nature and the holy eye
looking down upon their mistaken forms.
Arms tied. Legs askew. Expressions
so transcendental it could make a tough
man puke. Oh little girls, so murdered,
so dead. What was the last thought you
had, I wonder. What was your last glimpse
glancing at? Stars? Moonlight? The chalky
face on an angel hovering so close
above your head? Were you aware, my darling
girls, of your periphery? The sound
of an automobile passing by? Perhaps
a vision of your child waiting at home,
in the room of your ovary, to be born.
Ah, too late, too late. Too late to grow
an arm a spine a heart a song.
So what do you do but turn your face
into the void. Accept the drama of your fate.