A Nicaraguan Story


She ran outside,
stood in the street and screamed at the war,
hoping it would kill her;
it having eaten her eldest son,
and after thirteen days of red,
her husband.
Over twenty years later, every day
she walks a stony road,
unlocks the door to the village's humble
gallery of photos;
one hundred fifty family folk with soldier hearts,
sepia faces,
hung there to watch,
keep guard over their memories.
In the dusty cemetery families buried
all the guns;
AR 15s filled the graves,
so as to find their suited death
with death.
Yet, those graven markers point us up,
indicate to Whom they hope the victims fled;
these wobbly, countless Jesus fingers
poke through el barro de carne y hueso,
(the mud of meat and bone)
aiming at, directing us to safety.

Regarding Maria Gonzalez and the
Mothers of Heroes and Martyrs Museum in Esteli, Nicaragua

Copyright (c) 2007 Gary Brown