by Jayne Fenton Keane

It all started when they gave me a white feather.
Jabbed the accusing quills into my palm.
I marched with it through the now-you-see-it
now-you-don't bomber's arcade
and wrote to them with fantastic tales of blood.
The censors were pleased with these stories
with the way they spelled glory and victory
without ever mentioning death. So pleased
that they published and made movies out of them
and before I knew it, I was a hero.
It is a temporary job with permanent repercussions.
Do not mention the eye-pecking birds.
Do not mention the hair coiled around a tap.
Do not mention the pile of bloody clothes
or the vacant, staring men you see through bars.
Do not mention the boys with scarves tied to their jaws
or the girls playing stitch-up in the dirt.
Do not mention any of these things
and before you know it
you could be a hero,
you could even be
the next President.

© 1999 Jayne Fenton Keane
Jayne Fenton Keane lives on the Gold Coast in Australia. She has been extensively published in university journals and anthologies.