writing, poem, poetry, ICJ, South Africa, metaphor, genocide,

BY THEIR FRUIT

I have such trouble
writing this poem

my words swell fat
like overripe fruit
burst on
my page, on my fingers

covering everything with
sap wet, thick
and sticky

in colour and feel
indistinguishable from blood

and these
are the same words
the golden children of the law
use in the court room

where
such words do
not explode, do not
shatter the auditorium
with blood-juice
and bomb shrapnel

proving
(sadly, sadly)

that there will always be something about poems, about

poets
and the power
of their poetry

that remains forever
at a distance

tragically unreal