STONES LITTERED THE FIELD
By: Barbara Goodjoin
Stones large and small
littered the field.
They did not think to ask why
the stones lay bare in the sun…
just wondered why the stones
were on top and not under.
Some stones were chipped and shaped;
some even managed to hold on to a little paint.
Stones were picked and piled.
Stones were tossed and broken.
The field was plowed.
Up came the bones—
long and short–
Skulls broken with unseeing eyes…
Jaw bones gaped in silent screams!
STOP! PLEASE STOP!
A voice yelled from
a living head,
This is a place for the dead.
Some bones were still manacled;
Chains on leg bones—ropes on neck bones.
Some bones wrapped in rags.
Some bones still wrapped in the whips
that stole the labored breath,
that kept them sheathed in bruised and torn flesh.
Dirt was pushed back over.
Piled stones tossed back here and there.
Bent backs left with faces stained with tears.
Stones… littered the field.