8-year old palms
Will reveal creases etched by God
And crisscrosses made by guns
And daggers and knives and machetes.

Boy with a scowl painted across his face
Dressed in negligée
Wielding a Kalashnikov half his body weight
‘Stead of a wooden slate and a piece of chalk
Or a notebook and a Bic
Dots pages of soft-sells in the big cities
Not as a kid model for some fashion outfit in Milan
But as the emblem of unsettled black nations.

A look,
At this 8-year old,
A deep one
Makes you wonder:
Which of the wee orifices on his face
Did the hideous, blood-spilling monster go in through?

(I wrote this poem in 2013. Sadly, it may still be relevant.)