Beacon on the Barbed Wire

The prairie wind still carries his name,

tied to the crossbeam under empty sky.

A boy became a beacon in the flame.

October frost had sharpened every claim—

two men with bottles, hatred in each eye.

The prairie wind still carries his name.

They beat the light from him, left him maimed,

a scarecrow sagging where the barbed wires sigh.

A boy became a beacon in the flame.

No passing headlights pierced that lethal game;

thirteen hours alone, too cold to cry.

The prairie wind still carries his name.

His gentle hands that sketched and dreamed of fame

were swollen shut beneath the starless dye.

A boy became a beacon in the flame.

We legislate the sorrow, speak his shame,

yet somewhere new another tether lies.

The prairie wind still carries his name—

a boy became a beacon in the flame.