—for Zhao ZiyangThe Beijing breeze whispers
mournful strophes.
Tears like the mountain rains
follow slopes
to tributaries until they become one
with the rippling waters of the Yangtze.
I am a Tiananmen mother.
My eyes have swelled
with this sadness before.
The wetness follows a path
well rehearsed.
My nights are immense.
I am but a lone bare branch
in a cold, dark world.
They replicate
that June night
etched in my soul
over and over.
My son stood
in the Square
armed only
with a vision
and they came-
The People’s Army.
My son stood
in Tiananmen Square,
amid a sea of other
sons and daughters
and they came-
armored tanks
clanking along the streets into Tiananmen
driven by fear, ordered by paranoia.
Our sons and daughters
toppled to the earth
at their hands.
Crimson crawling into every crevice
Of these ancient Chinese streets
A stain still upon us today.
I cannot count the nights
I’ve wept for my son since.
Today, I weep for another.
There is no official news
but the Beijing breeze whispers again.
This time for the death of the old man.
There are guards of fear
stationed outside my door.
The lump in my throat is big,
I cannot begin to swallow,
that is how I know the truth.
Guilt always gnawing at my heart.
I could not help my son that June night.
Again as I am helpless.
I want to pay my respects
to the old man who stood up
for my son and others
massacred in Tiananmen,
but the thugs watch
my every move.
I am a Tiananmen mother.
It is my duty to weep
for the lost ones.
© 2005 Michael A. Wells
Source: http://stickpoetsuperhero.blogspot.com/2019/06/ii-interrupt-confession-tuesday-to.html?m=1