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In the dawn, I wake,
and inhale the scent of Detroit burning.
A red sun rises over boarded factories,
shrouding shadows of workers' ghosts.
Fire engines wail, packs of wolves in the night.
Another match, another arson, and another.
Dreams burn too, just like sticks.

I hear your song, Robin,
through my open window.
Your notes transcend chaos,
anesthetic for my soul.

Sing to me, Robin,
as I rise from my bed,
to hear the news more missiles are flying in Syria and Yemen,
This morning, children will become orphans.
As the sun sets, wives will become widows,
sisters will lose brothers, fathers will lose sons.
Shrapnel has no boundary,
no moral compass.

Sing to me, Robin
while boats rock like cradles
in the Mediterranean Sea's deadly embrace.
Refugees pay the man who stands in the dark,
before he gets them to the other side.
How many can he fit in a filthy boat?
How far before waves wash over them?
Trust is another word for betrayal.

Sing to me, Robin,
while a young man stands in line for food,
his hands longing to work, his mind yearning to learn.
When hunger consumes him, he will enlist to fight.
His hands were made to hold books, not guns.
It is not the enemy that will kill him, but his own government that sends him.
Tell me, Robin, what his song could be,
if a door were held open for him?

Sing to me Robin,
when a child's throat aches from thirst,
too parched for tears to fall.
Hunger closes ranks on thin limbs.
How many days can a child live without food?
How many days can a child live without water?
How far must a mother walk and walk, with dirty water in her jug?

Red Robin,
do you sing a eulogy?
Sorrow for what is our future, condolence for what is lost?
Or do you sing a song of hope,
days of peace and prosperity to come.
Do you take flight with the white dove?

Can enemies shake hands to save a child,
to build a school, to treat cholera,
to give a crutch for a missing limb,
to dig a well, to seed a garden,
to medicate the sick, to safely give birth,
to walk without fear, to sleep with warmth, to wake with hope,
to grow old with contentment.
Tell me Robin,
sing to me.

Author Tamara Morozoff Chicoine

Sunrise gives way to a dewy morning.
Rays shimmer a light that
create ripples upon a still pond.
Robins chirp high above
tree's wet leaves; conversations that
echo over distant hills.
A dragonfly, sapphire blue, floats
above yellow daffodils as if
gravity doesn't exist; creating
a silence in the soft wind.
An image in the distance,
a face. You.

Why am I confused?
Ashamed by the color of my skin. To be
dark skinned is a curse, to be white is to
desired. Longing for physical acceptance,
an illusion or a wishful reality?

A dress sewn of scrap material, a white
woman's donation to those less fortunate.
Slapped with poverty, riches I will never
endure. Anxiety, envy, rage, to be powder
white, privileged, I'm suffocating.

Legs slathered with Vaseline, melting
from the suns warmth. Burning like hot wax
as it seeps down shaky calves. Old women
laughing, heathens they are, as they cackle
at crumpled ruffles of a hand-me-down dress.

Voices echo in my head as loud as droplets
in a cave. Run, escape who I am; defined by
black skin, ugly with fear, in denial of who I will
become. A mind silently screaming in fear
of an unknown future.

The beach at dawn, a sun shadowed by grey skies. Stagnant clouds that resemble mounds of cotton. An unsettled sea; waves that crash the shore like angry titans. The wind dampens chilled skin with droplets of salt water. You were there.
An afternoon walk in the park, overcast skies have diminished. Shimmers of sunshine glisten upon a still lake. Men and women walking their dogs; children run after bouncy balls; others ride their bikes along the waters edge. Ducks float across water that resembles a sheet of glass, babies in tow. The wind creates an image of leaves dancing upon aged branches. In the wind, a gentle breeze tickles the nape of an exposed neck, your finger tips saying hello. You were there.
An early evening barbecue, family and friends all dance to disco music. Bodies bumping to the beat of Funky Town. Whispers, laughter, memories that echo through defeated ears. The wind brushes through closed fingers. You were there.
Night ends, the moons light illuminates a dark room. Silence, except for crickets singing a lullaby in the distance. Tears resemble tiny shards of broken glass as they trickle from tired eyes. A gentle breeze escapes through an open crack in the window. A caress upon a dampened cheek. In the wind, you were there.

Prose