Cherry Red

I’m talking about the child, not about the war.
It could have been any conflict at my door, or your door.
Cambodia or Lebannon, seals or oil, or land
I’m talking about the child with a grenade in her hand
I’m talking about her hair that bronzed magma in the sun
Not about the contortion of her face when the shout went up to ‘run’
She was six or seven… or fifteen or nine
She wore shoes or was barefoot when she stepped on the mine.
She wore a blue dress, or was naked, she worked paddy fields or learned
But poems and twee rhymes are shite
And pointless
And futile
And obscene
And wasted words as this child burns
So cut the crap
And the cat mat verse
The counting of syllables to fit neat and perfectly right
The slurry of purple prose as the poet feeling clever
Makes this match
Or that match
Who lit the match or pulled the pin or fired the gun
Or came to win or die or live
Go wildly offit into rant and ramble
Random and lawless
Like war.
Why not a picture instead to paint in your mind
Not your head
Which could have rhymed with instead
In your mind
In your eyes
In your graveyard on an easel of black marble
You’re scared of war
Admit it
Your’re scared of bringing it home
It’s not yours it’s not here
It’s in Taiwan or Tibet
Or in sixteen hundred and eighty three
Remember the child
The little girl
With a name that means nothing to you
She is called Kers
Picked by papa
It translates to cherry
He calls her Kers Rooi
Cherry Red
Because her hair is bronzed in the sun like magma
She likes to pull her papa’s beard
And picks up things to play with
Pebbles and paper and shells and grenades
She turned seven and will be eight
Or would if she wasn’t Cherry Red
Because Cherry Red is dead