You could always talk
your way through
the guards behind
the razor blade wire,
snarling dogs
when her tip toe
kept them quiet before
she leapt into your arms.
Volley of bullets in the dark
went amiss and you could
make it to the camp,
up the hill to the hearty
laughter of your friends,
who traced the
remains of her lipstick.
Those were the days of
romance and resistance.
Now the mark has succumbed,
bread very dear,
the girl gone and your brother is back.
Life has short-changed.
No sunflower to sell,
cabbage to grow and corn to pick.
The job market is being right-sized by
those who have no
jobs back home.
Contempt smells the
same and your anger has no place to go.
Travel documents may not get you far enough
for you have lost your voice.
