Legacy & Lemon People, two poems by Carol Carpenter

Bones blanch white in desert sun.
Skulls testify, mourn flesh and rivers
of blood that stain rock sunset red.

The sky is on fire, a desolate orange.
Only one Saguaro Cactus remains, arms raised in mock surrender, roots ready to detonate.

A bomb blasts open earth's black mouth
spewing boulders from the underground.
Green tanks roll on caterpillar treads.

Still, the gods wager against all odds,
shake two dice and throw. No sacrifice
appeases blood thirst if they throw seven.

Such gods play high stake games
through centuries. They rake in rubble, watch which way twin towers crumble.

A soldier guards the death cart
while the brown moth guides spirits
underground and the serpent strikes.

Maria resides in a box, in a place
she calls home with four walls
and no address. She plasters
photos everywhere, buildings she wants
for her very own on a street she lost somewhere.

Frederick crosses the line, steps off the curb in front of a yellow bus going too fast.
The cops hold back crowds who want a peek at a man they never noticed on the street where he snatched purses, money to buy dark birds.

Minerva sweats at the Rouge Plant
where steel bubbles, melts, pours into molds that shape her very soul as she clocks in and out. She counts the wages of her work and yearns for the cardinal's song all along.

We are all lemon people dropped from thorny trees.
We clutter our space, forget the fields we farmed, ignore the ocean roar -- and suck our own tart juice