The Vulture and the Baby

The Vulture and the Baby

The silent photograph
screams obscenities at me,
grabbing me
cutting me
ripping into me,
forcing me to see
the horror so far outside my world.
My wailing tears soak the print
below the picture
but not one drop falls inside its borders.

The child lies in the desolate field,
face in the dirt,
struggling to stand
struggling to move
struggling to live.
Her black skin outlines
protruding ribs
and matchstick arms;
her quiet whimpering
leaps loudly off the glossy page.

The vulture waits in the hot sun
a stone's throw behind.
A statue frozen
with no emotion,
crouching intently
crouching silently
crouching patiently,
waiting for the time
to claim its prize,
as it must do.

The photographer took the picture,
as he must .... and then
he chased the scavenger away.
The image shocked the world
and won him a Pulitzer.
But with the realities forever imprinted,
tearing at his tortured mind,
he jumped from the pedestal
with a noose around his neck,
without making a sound.