an internal conflict

I have seen a deer who does not stop eating when the sky breaks open
and pours down handfuls of hunting dogs,
but instead dips her brush into a pale murky water.
and when the clutter of feathered wings beating, collapses into
the sky's uncovered wound,
sending cries which reach the foreign shores,
I have seen a bird stray onto an opposite path.
It's blood hit the ground, and then it's body.

but what jewel of earth's good mines
when held, before the sun,
does not throw down tiny specs of light,
freckeling the damp, gray floor?

my father carries the rifle, my mother, the crippled dream
and they parade in line,
defending a tradition of structure.
and yet, i am of their blood,
their blood flows through me.

what harmony can exist between this knot and the
teaspoon upon teaspoon of chinese rainbows
that I read falls from the immigrant's grin?
am i doomed never to escape and find them,
will my hands and eyes fade, too?