Gather your men.
Call me your slurs.
Sick. Tranny. Whore.
Scream them right
at my face, but know
you might as well
spit your words into the
ground around us.
For I am not human.
I am an aching landscape.
A war torn battleground.
Cratered and fractured,
from the weapons of men.
Burnt soil, from their wars of attrition.
I am an uneasy victory.
Land reclaimed inch by inch,
with surgical precision.
Fresh lines drawn
atop twisted blackened wounds.
So I cannot respond to your words
any more than the stone or concrete
around us, unmoved, uncaring.
I, a material memorial
to the anger of frightened men.