sliding deep into moistened
pregnant soil, fingers spread
reaching instinct imbedded by
ancestors breathing blood into
the brown, plenteous potato
source and substance for survival

guns like angry sabers tearing,
teeth dripping red flesh
piling young bodies into bales
of wheat, the grain crumbling

scream, Russians peasant, cries of
Beshenkovitch, burning in snowy
wastes flaming with clenched fists
whipped by laughing Cossacks who
rape daughters and wives their
faces contorted, remembering
promises once secret now destroyed

but spring returns forgetting the
blood of its sons soaked into the
steppes, demanding strong hands
to plant the new crop of babies


Donald Everett Axinn
From Sliding Down The Wind

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