Just don't tell me about the issues. I can see the pale spider-belly head of the newborn who lies on the lawn, the web of veins at the surface of her scalp, her skin grey and gleaming, the clean line of the bayonet down the center of her chest. I see her mother's face, beaten and beaten into the shape of a plant, a cactus with grey spines and broad dark maroon blooms. I see her arm stretched out across her baby, wrist resting, heavily, still, across the tiny ribs. Don't speak to me about politics. I've got eyes, man.