||| Three Fingers

||| three fingers

we belong to a country with fingers as prison bars

every word thrown in the swamp

tongues buried in a grave

ammunition cremated

you call us traitors

cut our hair; shatter our mirrors

leave us stranded with a slap on the wrist

three fingers still upright

atrophy from the white ribbon

they don’t have ears but long to have another mouth

"love your country, kid."

the clock’s three fingers have only turned once

how do you know what’s good when you have never seen it?

give me your hand so i can slap it

children

unaware of what freedom smells like

born and raised by khaki troops

swearing loyalty like singing karaoke

holding up