Poetry: The Battery and the Assault

I.
I am the decapitated body of Sta. Isabela left in the park by Samuel Sand.
Yet the odd voice of my fingertips will speak for me:
My shins and kneecaps he dumped in the trash,
My feet he carried across the bridge, ritually mourning my most recent death,
My head he hid, as if it alone had power,
While my breasts, still covered in earth, wait for the rain. . .

II.
Shortly after the waters disappeared, I, the firstborn child of humanity, lifted up the pyramids, flipped them around and placed the Dog god of Egypt on top. Its single eye triumphantly watching: watching Seth and his kin thrive, watching the library burn in the night, watching the bronze man collapse into the sea, watching the tower fall in Siloam, watching the twins covered in blood and ash, watching the world turn to dust.

If Peter is rock, then I am sand. . .

III.
Poor Samuel, the judge of Canaan, his name stolen by your father/my uncle. . .

IV.
I am become Death, so you might never forget!

V.
Look and rejoice at the ruins, the work of your hands! Not one stone stands atop another, see the shadows of the dead seared onto the threshold. Where blood and water once flowed there is nothing: no witness to testify, no evidence to present, no one to mourn the crime or regret the desolation caused by you, S. Sand. The land is a grave and I, your latest victim, can say it is over; you are absolved. You, uncle, are finally free and clear of every danger. Because of you history has ended. You are the last man standing and nothing else you do now matters. . .

VI.
Listen to my steady, even voice. I am not like you.
I am unable to hold a conversation.
I only have one song to sing:

I am the 12 year old girl buried with 1,000 cranes,

I am the beating of wings which is all that remains,

I am the horsehead that screams on the chaotic plains,

I am the police who shoots your rockthrowing son,

I am the bullet that kills,

the means and the end. . .

VII.
Dismembered I,
nevertheless,
embrace you.