by Lavinia Kumar
The Lord of the Flies is in the Senate, and is in
the other chamber, while council flies crawl
the blue brocade wallpaper before choosing
one of the empty wood chairs. There they feast
on sows' ears and silk purses, their excrement green,
their buzz amplified when they reach the front
microphone, where with swollen chests they preach
to the empty hall. The cameras focus on their
compound eyes, eyes that see the kaleidoscope
of words, sentences and letters that shoot
from tight jaws and instantly break into pellets
to sail in many directions, as bonfires of money burn
and men kill men. But no one sees the savagery
except the Lord of the Flies settled comfortably
in each head that rolls, each head added to
the collection behind the tall iron fence on the island.
But people on the outside pass by slowly, looking,
waiting for the next head.
Lavinia Kumar lives in New Jersey. Her family includes a variety of cultures and immigrants. Her poetry has appeared in Waterways, Thatchwork (Delaware Valley Poets), Orbis, US1 Worksheets, Caper, Pemmican, Ascent Aspirations, and the US1 newspaper.
_____________________________________________________
