A Few Resources

We are carving air with dull knives,

Dividing the whisper of a loaf

among a hundred open mouths.

They sit in glass towers,

fat on the surplus of our sweat,

counting coins like heartbeats,

while down here, we measure water in drops

and trade our tomorrows for a handful of dust.

Not enough.

The words choke the throat,

scratched onto empty plates,

screamed into rooms that swallow sound.

There is enough soil.

There is enough sun.

There is enough blood in the ground

to drown every bloated beast

who locked the granary doors.

When the cupboards are bare and the children shiver,

we will not starve in quiet dignity—

we will eat the locks,

we will chew the iron,

and we will leave you nothing at all.