A SORT OF ART

They made a sort of music with their feet,
a seesaw slapping as they hit the ground
in time with undead, resurrected years—
the monochrome past of sepia suffering.
They made their music ring in children’s ears
all day and night with its staccato beat,
then made the children make another sound,
something like an orchestra for the king
with mami, papá, dios, retch, and wail
for notes. It quivered through the king’s rich heart.
Now they make another music with bones
crushed and sifted through screens, a whispered trill
that sounds like burning notes. A sort of art
of no remains. Not names. Not even stones.