monrovia 2002, & checkpoints
BY JEREMY KARN
you had no idea where the road ends but you walked.
maybe in the end you saw where the sky bows to equal
the earth’s roundness
you wanted to tell your mother that you are tired
of the war. the bodies you kept tumbling into
that tried to fit in the ground.
some bodies were emptied of eyes, you said.
it sang beneath your tongue, the thing in you that wanted to tell
your mother of how bullet shells outnumbered
the grains of sand on the ground.
but how do you tell the rebels at every checkpoint that
you are too young for the war?
all of them have the same small eyes as you.
