WITNESS

One night, I decide to leave the crowd

of noisy cousins behind, so that I can stargaze

alone, turning my view of the wild sky’s

radiance

into new rhymes.

At the edge of a swamp, I stumble upon a scene

so shocking that I wonder if I’m dreaming.

Beside an oxcart, two men battle with machetes,

until the hand of one is sent flying into the dark air,

chopped off.

Should I tell anyone what I’ve seen,

or will sensible grown-ups refuse to listen

to this tale of a violent crime witnessed by a child?

Isn’t the role of poets to pass along truths,

both gruesome and beautiful?

Yes, I’ll have to tell, and maybe someday

I’ll put the terrifying memory in writing as well.