Missed yesterday for... reasons.
Had the book this comes from for a while now, but only found it again last night; thanks to a kitteh climbing where he shouldn't so, with thanks to Ryouh here is a poem sadly pertinent for the times in which we live.
The Leader by Sharon Olds (from One Secret Thing publ. by Cape Poetry)
Seeing the wind at the airport blowing on his hair,
lifting it up where it was slicked down, you
want to say to the wind, Stop, that's
the leader's hair, but the wind keeps lifting it
and separating the thin strands and
fanning it out like a weed-head in the air.
His brows look bright in the airport glare,
his eyes are crinkled up against the sun, you
want to say to his eyes, Stop you are
the leader's eyes, close yourselves, but they are
on his side, no part of his body
can turn against him. His thumbnail is long and
curved - it will not slit his throat for the
sake of the million children; his feet in their
polished shoes won't walk him into the
propeller and end the war. His heart won't
cease to beat, even if it knows
whose heart it is - it has no loyalty to
other hearts, it has no future outside his body.
And you can't suddenly tell his mind that it is
his mind, get out while it can,
it already knows that it's his mind -
much of its space is occupied with the
plans for the marble memorial statues
when he dies of old age. They'll place one
in every capital city of his nation
around the world - Lagos, Beijing,
São Paulo, New York, London, Baghdad,
Sydney, Paris, Jerusalem,
a giant statue of hi, Friend to the Children
of the leader's country -
which will mean all children, then,
all those living.
Goddess watch over us all,