Who Wants Peace, BAYBEH?

Don’t talk about peace, baybeh.
It ain’t no good to walk the mile
With a dove that looks like
It’s carrying an unborn child.
Swollen wombs must be ripped open
For only then can you have a reason
To release feathered birds
In a sky
As empty as a curfew street.
Where are the clouds, baybeh?
Bring down the rains
Let it pour like honey.
The cloying sweetness
Will enter my pores
Welcome squirts in little holes
Hovels of our souls.
Skin and rain
Will then be the same.

Madame X sniffed the air.
She was here to kill
In a leopard print dress
That made her look a little less
Alluring than a beast.
She whispered to me,
Dahling, I collect antiques,
I am here to pick up some history.
I wonder what is for sale…
I showed her the scarred wall
That went up in flames.
Little babies got burnt in the fire.
Aw, pity-pitee, she drawled.
But that’s just a year old story
And are children history?
I agreed they were not.
She was smarter than I thought.

Would she care to come with me outside
And see a weathered face in the sunlight?
I showed her Tai, who’s been sitting for years
In that one place
Watching well-shod feet
Hoping the shoes might give way.
Many storms have lashed against her skin
The deeper indentations are within.
Would she do, I asked my guest…
Not quite, she said.
If you had noticed inside
There was a picture displayed
In sepia tones
Of a woman just like that.

We returned to the sanctity
Of soft musical ripples
Manicured hands conducting a symphony
Of subtle sniffles.
This is real history,
Said Madame X…
A projector whirred.
The wall shook with stills
From an old war film.
The images naked:
Bullets
Blood
Bodies
And then:
Hollow eyes
Dry eyes
Vacant eyes
Hopeless eyes
Blind eyes
Blinded eyes.
This is history, I was told
When you cannot see.

As I was leaving
X came up to me and said,
Do you think you are the only one who feels?
Scratch your skin and you will find me.
You can do nothing
Neither can I.
But I buy history
And pay for someone’s tomorrow.
What do you to do?

I said I stocked up on mascara
So when I cry
My lashes can write
History on my cheeks.
My painted lips will speak history
Behind closed doors
Where you have eyes only
For recreated sights.
Watch the wars and the wounds
They will be the past soon
Then you can come with me
And enter the marketplace
And buy and sell
What you saw yesterday --
Trishuls and trinkets
Even a model of a burning train.

I have coloured my dove red.
Now when you shoot at it and the blood congeals
I will not know it is dead.
Who wants peace, baybeh?
Let me breathe the fetid air
And bottle it for posterity.