July 4 1991
"Murder of Paul Broussard"
Grandchildren Aside (for Paul Brousards mother)
October 8, 2000
By John-Michael Albert
"A mother could not be happier,"
When you told me you were gay.
No power mad, over fed Congress
of numb nuts
Would press you into service, drink your blood,
And grind your bones to dust in distant lands,
To slake its white male taste for pineapples
And bananas, quaffed with foreign crude.
And your life had purpose.
It had direction:
You sent photos of marches, parties, and parades.
You sat on committees, spoke to councils
On behalf of the neglected and the dying: your friends.
I saw you happy, strong, and well.
A mother could not be happier.
Then the wilding high school
boys in their souped-up car.
Then the two-by-fours, fanged with sixteen-penny nails,
Envenomed with glistening rubies, ripped
From the frantic bellows of your gasping chest.
Then the 3 A.M. phone call:
Hello? ... Yes? ... Oh my God ...
Taught their children to rob
Me of my happiness,
And them of their grandchildren
In one mad act.
Below, Leandro Ramirez, one
of the Broussard murderers