Waking up: A poem of grief

My walls are drenched in blood.
You cannot see, perhaps -
I did not see it either.
The blood appeared one day,
And now I cannot turn away.
I wonder - has it always been
Here? Dripping, pooling,
Stinking… all around me?

A mother weeps
Over a lifeless, torn - beloved child;
While far away and not so far,
A shriek of anguish carries
On a wisp of smoke;
A small, still body in a burned out house.
Who paid; and what exactly was this price
To keep my backyard 'safe?'

I was a fool; and surely I
Was raised on lies -
But that is no excuse.
I had a mind, but never asked;
Who really built these walls?
How many children’s bodies lie
Crushed and broken -
Buried under my foundation?

Who really paid the price tag
On my chair, this bed, this lamp?
Who really bled to make me free?
I drank the corporate Kool-aid
Every day; drank every drop.
“Land of the free, home of the brave;”
But no one ever said
That we were good.

My walls are drenched in blood.
My food is black with ash.
My water, thick with oil.
And I - just waking up,
Can finally see, and smell and touch…
And cry, at last, for what I am;
For what my country
Has become.

-Maire