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Poetry

Marikana

  1. A bullet for infection, a hundred twelve injections.
  2. Stop the spread with dozens dead, four months till my election.
  3. McBuffalo the traitor now opposite of labour;
  4. The boss in bed with platinum head, we’ve lost our arbitrator.
  5. We have 500 rand, but billions in his hands.
  6. Each day we dig for dirty pigs deep under desert sand.
  7. We work, and bleed, and sweat to pay our hungry debt.
  8. So tired now, collective vow to make the mountain trek.
  9. With patience we sit waiting, our roof and bed dictating
  10. Protection feigned, they try in vain our weapons confiscating.
  11. Green blanket calls dismount from off the mighty mount
  12. Thousands strong now join the throng towards the body count.
  13. Spears clapping and just singing, their chants in valley ringing.
  14. Box them in! We’re going to win! Let’s start the tear gas flinging!
  15. First seventeen are dying. The scene now horrifying.
  16. They’re on the run; the hunt’s begun. We’ve doubled bodies lying.
  17. It’s just like 1960—well, maybe not so swiftly.
  18. It’s not the cracks, this time it’s black, and certainly more grisly.
  19. “Cease fire,” yell the bosses. Too late to stop the losses.
  20. Medics barred. No badges charged. See all the wooden crosses.
  21. Two seventy arrested of those who had protested
  22. A murder charge, but they just marched. The system is infested.
  23. Marikana had backfired, four weeks they did inspire:
  24. A hundred grand did take a stand, each worker filled with fire.

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By Kim Siever

I live in Lethbridge with my spouse and 5 of our 6 children. I’m a writer, focusing on political news, social issues, and the occasional poem. My politics are radically left. I recently finished writing a book debunking several capitalism myths. My newest book writing project is on the labour history of Lethbridge.

I’m also dichotomally Mormon. And I’m a functional vegetarian: I have a blog post about that somewhere around here. My pronouns are he/him, and I’m queer.

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