40
SCATTERING FLOWERS

a poem by George Hitchcock

"It is our best and prayerful judgment
that they (air attacks on North Viet-

nam) are a necessary part of the surest
road to peace." LYNDON B. JOHNSON

There is a dark tolling in the air,
an unbearable needle in the vein,

the horizon flaked with feathers of rust.
From the caves of drugged flowers
fireflies rise through the night:

they bear the sweet gospel of napalm.
Democracies of flame are declared
in the villages, the rice-fields
seethe with blistered reeds.

Children stand somnolent in their crutches.
Freedom, a dancing-girl,

Lifts her petticoats of gasoline,

and on the hot sands of a deserted beach
a wild horse struggles, choking
in the noose of diplomacy.

Now in their cane chairs the old men
who listen for the bitter wind

of bullets, spread on their thighs
maps, portfolios, legends of hair,

and photographs of dark Asian youths

who are already dissolving into broken water.

From A Poetry Reading Against the Vietnam War