ARABS

Our Arabs lived

on the western edge of the town.

Wrong side of tracks

ripped up as obstacles to progress.

Those dirty arabs.

They ate their own. 

I should know. 

I was one they nearly ate.

It’s not love that herds

us into nations, is it? It’s hate.

Hate’s the human harness.

Love kicks.

Love bucks.

Then it gets put down.

Or else, and this is rare,

 It flees into the hills of separation,

 With all the marks to bear.