The Unseen Whip
by Liam McEneaney
A black horde descends upon a sharp rocky shore,
Shoes shuffling, torn and jagged upon the terrain
Of dull teeth grinding against their ragged soles.
An empty, hungry sea awaits their return,
This shambling mass, heads down and eyes averted,
And across their dark and dirty backs, deep red stripes,
Across scarred and searing skin, the tattoo of an impatient master
Whose dark hand holds an unseen whip.
A soldier sits, arms folded, wrapped in grey-green fatigues,
Head down, fast asleep, body rocking in the tunnel,
White lights streaking across his face,
As this engine hurtles towards an unknown end point,
Its only destination to stop.
A teetering slope of stone, carved by winds from the sea,
And near fractured by the thunder-crack,
White wounds tearing across a thin black sky.
And upon this impress of stone, an anchor cradled,
Bearing mute witness to this starving, stumbling multitude.
No bleak iron chains resting heavy on their hands,
Nor shackles to bind or cripple their feet,
Yet still they lurch under the cold steel of the fear
That to slow their pace, or turn aside
May bring upon their thin and disfigured backs,
Shivering exposed to the bleak rain,
The sharp snap and drawn blood
Of a dark hand holding this unseen whip.
Clad head-to-toe in black cloth,
Body wrapped in a dark iron
And only a dirty white collar
To distinguish him from thief,
Or assassin, he kneels
At a glowing golden altar
His hands stained with the green
Smears of a god who has visited
And on visiting, in answer to a prayer,
Has left garbage.
And his body hurtles through a tunnel
Dark and endless, quaking and shivering
Sweating feverish, teeth grinding,
He tears at his robe,
His body eating itself with a need
And his eyes roll back in his head
As his head whips from side to side
As his blood boils in his veins
As his nails rip at his flesh
And his jaw grinds and grinds and grinds
Until the pain of want is so great
He can only nod agreement
To the voice commanding with a deep thunder roll,
Eyes unseeing through a thin white film
Of tears.
March they now into the ravenous belly
Of a dragon-prowed slave ship, into the cells and holds
They will sweat with disease, and burn with a desire
To taste the sweet breath of a green summer evening,
On a wet grassy field, ‘neath a sheltering tree,
And the stars are blinking, old and wise,
As they lay, cramped and starved and shivering, they wait
For the soul-eaters, whose stomachs grow fatter yet never full.
And they eyes roll like cattle, and they whine like penned dogs,
Though there is no collar to choke them, nor fences to hold.
Only the cages of thin sharp wire ringing their minds
And tearing across their backs, racing from the clutch
Of a dark hand holding this unseen whip.
Trees of bare-bone brown framing fields of fire, staccato
bursts of light from a dark desert town ringed
in tight circles of barbed wire - death drone
of grey metal raining down
fills the empty spaces 'neath the sky,
ragged wounds in the earth
where they buried their dead.
Death rains like tears from an empty
eye and - torn by the jagged rain
from a cloudless sky - her mouth hanging open
like a dark casket door, her body baby-cradled in her father’s
arms there, laid upon the splintered floor, trembling hands
hold her head as blood fights lungs for empty air
coughing twice as if taken ill
coughing twice then lying still.
Blood trickles in a thin line from her lip
Scars running from this unseen whip
by Liam McEneaney
A black horde descends upon a sharp rocky shore,
Shoes shuffling, torn and jagged upon the terrain
Of dull teeth grinding against their ragged soles.
An empty, hungry sea awaits their return,
This shambling mass, heads down and eyes averted,
And across their dark and dirty backs, deep red stripes,
Across scarred and searing skin, the tattoo of an impatient master
Whose dark hand holds an unseen whip.
A soldier sits, arms folded, wrapped in grey-green fatigues,
Head down, fast asleep, body rocking in the tunnel,
White lights streaking across his face,
As this engine hurtles towards an unknown end point,
Its only destination to stop.
A teetering slope of stone, carved by winds from the sea,
And near fractured by the thunder-crack,
White wounds tearing across a thin black sky.
And upon this impress of stone, an anchor cradled,
Bearing mute witness to this starving, stumbling multitude.
No bleak iron chains resting heavy on their hands,
Nor shackles to bind or cripple their feet,
Yet still they lurch under the cold steel of the fear
That to slow their pace, or turn aside
May bring upon their thin and disfigured backs,
Shivering exposed to the bleak rain,
The sharp snap and drawn blood
Of a dark hand holding this unseen whip.
Clad head-to-toe in black cloth,
Body wrapped in a dark iron
And only a dirty white collar
To distinguish him from thief,
Or assassin, he kneels
At a glowing golden altar
His hands stained with the green
Smears of a god who has visited
And on visiting, in answer to a prayer,
Has left garbage.
And his body hurtles through a tunnel
Dark and endless, quaking and shivering
Sweating feverish, teeth grinding,
He tears at his robe,
His body eating itself with a need
And his eyes roll back in his head
As his head whips from side to side
As his blood boils in his veins
As his nails rip at his flesh
And his jaw grinds and grinds and grinds
Until the pain of want is so great
He can only nod agreement
To the voice commanding with a deep thunder roll,
Eyes unseeing through a thin white film
Of tears.
March they now into the ravenous belly
Of a dragon-prowed slave ship, into the cells and holds
They will sweat with disease, and burn with a desire
To taste the sweet breath of a green summer evening,
On a wet grassy field, ‘neath a sheltering tree,
And the stars are blinking, old and wise,
As they lay, cramped and starved and shivering, they wait
For the soul-eaters, whose stomachs grow fatter yet never full.
And they eyes roll like cattle, and they whine like penned dogs,
Though there is no collar to choke them, nor fences to hold.
Only the cages of thin sharp wire ringing their minds
And tearing across their backs, racing from the clutch
Of a dark hand holding this unseen whip.
Trees of bare-bone brown framing fields of fire, staccato
bursts of light from a dark desert town ringed
in tight circles of barbed wire - death drone
of grey metal raining down
fills the empty spaces 'neath the sky,
ragged wounds in the earth
where they buried their dead.
Death rains like tears from an empty
eye and - torn by the jagged rain
from a cloudless sky - her mouth hanging open
like a dark casket door, her body baby-cradled in her father’s
arms there, laid upon the splintered floor, trembling hands
hold her head as blood fights lungs for empty air
coughing twice as if taken ill
coughing twice then lying still.
Blood trickles in a thin line from her lip
Scars running from this unseen whip