President Donald Trump shaking hands with Prime Minister Keir Starmer. Commons image.
By Violet White
Behold, the wicked conceive harm,
are pregnant with injustice,
and give birth to lies. – Psalm 7
All you who shun truth,
who have forsaken – to exceeding
grief – the breath of integrity,
taking – in its lieu – expedient’s
mess of pottage –
How will you live your life now?
Seeing
what you cost so many?
Seeing
how they paid the ultimate price
for your ease. And you do not have ease
anymore.
The sheet you spread beneath you
runs red like the winding sheets of your crime;
it keens through all your nights. Lies
are such disloyal companions;
the unbodying whisper of death
is in their conception. And in their
uttering is betrayal. But you ate them.
And then fed them to others.
For sustenance.
The starving now mass your table.
You have what you asked for. But savour
escapes you – fleeing from the palate
in the reverse passage from plate
to mouth.
Mouth. Turned traitor.
Traitor and Slave.
Inheritance traded for a dish of dust –
served up to innocents
in the desert you made
of habitation. You
are their deprivation.
But, trust me, they are yours.
And tables turn.
And tables get overturned.
Doves have been known to fly free.
And profiteers can be scattered;
profit taken back
by the righteous inhabitants
of the House.
