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Jan 152014
 

by K.G.Newman

 

Progress turns in reverse, western civilization

unraveling the grand romance of its words.

 

Little Boy and Fat Man slurp skyward

into the cavity of each B-29.

Sooty women and children backpedal

through factory gates as the sun

dips in the east. Fifty million Africans,

chained in two-by-six racks

beneath the deck,

retreat across the Atlantic. Arawaks

backstroke from the strange boat.

 

Look as the strawberry shrivels

from your lotioned hand,

withdrawing to the vine

to be plucked by a hunched laborer.

Privilege is a musty cologne, no?

It’s a wonder how so many

haven’t noticed the calendar

transposing its months: December

to November, November to October,

October to the celebration

of a New World begun by genocide.

Every grave dug can be covered

by the victor’s dirt. History can,

with the necessary tunnel vision,

be okay with itself.