he suggests

the sky is green; 
the ocean, magenta; 
and sand, the red blood of our vanquished enemies. 

he suggests trees are steel wool we can harvest 
to make tanks and bullets and guns and guns 
and more guns because guns 
will keep us safe.

he suggests the rain that fills reservoirs 
and overtops dams and washes away homes 
and trucks and cars is 
                                                                                                               their fault
and rain 
that falls tenderly on rooftops, 
is drunk gratefully by thirsty ground, 
and gently irrigates the waving grains

is a blessing 
only he 
can provide.

he suggests,                and the press repeats— 
           without                 examination, 
           without                 elaboration, 
           without                 context—

and the gentle rain becomes his gift to bestow.

suddenly
trees are spun metal lollipops,
the ocean, endless waves of magenta,

and the sky blazes 
a brilliant 
and unnatural shade 
of green.

by Gale Naylor