INFANTICIDE

by Gabriel Search

Red, soaking red was the room,

Where I stood still,
Behind that tree of flesh.
And I worshipped it like the machine
Of the industry, like the sweat off a workers back
After a long, tiring day of corn harvest.
I touched the sacred tree, I kissed it,
As I held her breasts and felt it breathing.
And up the white stairs we went,
Men, tree, machine, harvested corn, worker, sacred...
Never were those stairs so white!
Our steps: white!
Our touching hands: white!
Our breath: white!
But upstairs we went, and never have I been
So up and so white! Hate it!
I hate the white! It burns the eyes!
It blinds the touch! It deafens the hands!
I hate feeling them white! Feeling the stairs!
What to worship? The most stupid tree!
Because it is not a tree...