The victims of deeds passed on in return

You look at me as if you think this is easy.

When I picked up this broomstick,I thought I was the prodigal son,trying to return through this act of vengence:

But my folk,they wouldn't have me,even if I could leave.

Man, you sure do bleed.You know,this prison has made us, from the outside in,has turned the sublimity of this momentinto a passing sighin the bowels of America.The twisting, turning, rolling,the becoming of your deathby my handis so foretoldthat we can't rememberthe tellingof the story.

Nor could we have predicted this end.

No,this is not easy:With every blow to your head,in the relief of your swelling groans,I knowthe limp, dying thingthat you are, I am.I know

this sick house of healing,where we are,is home.

keith m. harris(31 may 1997)