the fig trees are dead

a windy war against sticky fruit
like a breeze through lying dice 
by chance a scorching bullet rolls out of the holster
on fire with the urge to conquer
our sisters who speak a different language

from wild trunks to soldiers standing in a line
in a living battlefield
in a concentration camp
called an orchard
imprisoned: monoculture haunts their underground tunnels
                       domestication haunts their mythology 

a lieutenant built of hungry humanity
belches up orders from his stomach
harvest the children
demolish untamed abundance, control its bounty
so it can fit into grey boxes
be packaged and sold