"They strip'd himto his little shirt,
And bound him in an iron chain."
                        -William Blake

Tear stained
concave ivory Little Boycheeks
darkened and deepened
by freedom sun
torn from anationally ornamented
bungalow
in grainy morning air,
at fivea.m.,
mid Little Boy slumber.

Race car bed,disconnected.
No more dashboards,
no more "vrooms"and
imaginary tire
screeches.
Little Boy is screeching,
little tires flaming
for 35 blocks,
illuminating the Cubanflags.

A barrel
for each family eye
I will shoot you
inthis bedroom closet,
in front of Little Boy,
I will shoot,
I swear.
I will tear this all
apart.

Dark suitedwoman
baring teeth.
Why must you;
I can't bear thispain.
Put your blanket away,
your guns, your
nighttimesuperiority. Please
don't squeeze Little Boy
so tightly.
Hismommy is dead.
Don't hurt his
tummy,
too.