Tonight's Poet Corner: Ivory Bars

Ivory Bars
by Belinda Roddie

They incarcerate heroes and condemn martyrs,
and when the former finally lose their skin to
age and panic, their bones are used to frame
the windows, bolt the doors, and
line the once empty spaces leading into
the mish-mash of cacophonous laughter
concerning the absurd concept that the
system is fair. They imprison heroes and

dig up martyrs, and then they use their bones
for bars, so when you, too, are locked
away for speaking the truth or freeing
a slave, you can grip the ossified
ribs between your fingers, feeling the dust
of futility on your hands, the betterment of society
disintegrating into ash on your palms, the hollow
shaft where the marrow used to be - bright,
bright blood, the blood of a brave

woman, or a clever man, dried up
or drained or drunk by those who
smile and rub their paws together to
brush the death off them and go on their
merry way, before they detain
another stranger attempting to right
the wrongs of the leviathan that uses
its fangs to strip the flesh away and leave
the skeletons behind.