You invite harm into our home call it a friend give it our soup the day of my execution you look away you have no time to offer me a cigarette. I take a regular beating blood in my mouth scatter of teeth you walk to the other side of the street buy a sandwich. You see ten shiny boots in the forest you let me take my bicycle I do not catch a hare later that day the children find my bicycle. I am pushed into a train you are not so you take my dog into your home you rename it you have done a good deed. They ask a question you answer then go buy milk you have done nothing wrong when you come home our mother is crying. You receive a medal in exchange for my teeth it is very shiny and a good price when you think about it.
The March of History
Rub me out erase my face take my children away give them a brand new name a good education. Turn my body to smoke deliver me from land and history there is no me only the greater good you are greater than me. In the new world people will bake cake properly none of my ethnic poppycock ethnic will have been cleaned. Find a use for my hair my bones it costs a lot to clean me off so it is only fair to send the bill to my old family. Far too many of us and we all look the same you cannot make a country solid a land of pride without breaking a few fingers and eggs. When you are free of me I will be freed from you a whole kingdom of mud and blood to you to me the clouds.
By the power of the trousers, The monocle, the cobblestone, I will subjugate you. Your language, unreasonable: Silly songs for me to enjoy With my afternoon tea. Your clothes not clothes but a costume - You wear it when I tell you to, Colourful pantomime. The land you farm is mine. Your hair Woven into hairpieces for Opera nights in Paris. We scar your country with our roads. Whose fault is it? Your people failed To enter history. I want your flora, your fauna, Your women, your hard work. I will Give you nothing for it. You look white enough to be me. In three generations, you will Have forgotten it all.
Lorelei Bacht is a European poet living in Asia. In a past life, she was a political lobbyist. When she is not carrying little children around or encouraging them to discover the paintings of Edvard Munch, she can be found collecting bones and failing scientific experiments. Her recent work can be found and/or is forthcoming in OpenDoor Poetry, Litehouse, Visitant, Quail Bell and The Wondrous Real.