Matthew Boyle

Those vulture eyes
accuse me from the red rock ledge
so high—
where I know the natives danced
for rain
that never came.
permeates the place,
a mighty river torn to a trickle
and even that soon dies away.
The slaving sun sucks up the green—
now more precious than the gold
that drove us here for paper promises.

If only these hardened hands
could trade the satin blood of babes
to revel in the once-familiar splash
of life across this Martian earth,
could bargain with Satan
to savor the swift slip of liquid
down a shrinking throat
that long ago gave up the cry
of eloi, eloi
lama sabachthani.


Sky, Marissa Bergmann
"Sky," Marissa Bergmann

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