In Gaza

Something broke long ago
tender neck, brittle bones,
olive branch in the desert.

And how do we make
repairs to the dead?
Straighten the spine,

push rebar through marrow,
sew ring-ed time and bark?
Do we let the wounds lie, hoping

they will close with the hours?
Only the living form scars
and even those burst

unprotected.

The Meeting

This Poem is a fresh draft, still not completely tweaked, but here it is.

The Meeting
Fredrick William Burton’s “Meeting
on the Turret Stairs,” 1864

I wonder why they close their eyes.
He with lips pressed into the velvet
crease of her elbow
inhales deeply perhaps his last breath
with back hard against the stone
pillar covered head to tip of toe
in steel mesh and hide,
a contrast to the soft dense blue
of her gown and train
of cumbersome folds.

She faces the wall, chin turned down,
arm stretched across the chest of him
who is meant to save her from
war and rape and shame,
she more than image, thicker
than mist, holds him there
and he would fall
forward at any moment
if she were to disappear,
turn to memory or fog.

We have no evidence of tears,
not even a spot on canvas,
the only thing trailing or falling
is her long gold braid crossing
the back of a bodice,
but here he is crying into her arm,
the most intimate of meetings
in the midst of a history that will
forget them, turned to emblem and myth.
We blink and it is gone.

Staining Glass

Listen, child, to the steps
of quiet cries,
liturgy of tight fists,

broken fingers
wearing crushed coal,
glowing ore.

Do you hear the burst
of purple
under amber eyes,

see the breeze of silk scarf,
tied high
around bending neck?

Stained glass, brightened
by warm streams, washes
everything.

Colors of what was shattered
draw you into the image
painted a-cross

stone and cement.
Shards in shapes without words—
angles unmeasured, curves untraced.

Yes, they are beautiful
all pieced and polished together.
But this is a broken place.

Feel, child, the song
of the Via Dolorosa,
its starts and steps,

rocks lodged in heels.
Rubies run down temple
from nature’s filigree.

She wanted to follow
each twist of road
each turn of sacred ankle,

but wore the bracelet of warning,
burning opal, stinging sapphire,
precious family heirloom.

Listen, child, to the silence.
Hear flaming prayers flicker.
You will not find her

candle here.
Hear flashing tithes of silver.
Her offering was not accepted.

Hear emeralds sparkle
from plundered cities.
Her riches are not set in alter stone.

Hear the faith of our fathers
sung each week without fail
and wonder

whose voice stains the glass.

Rebirth (not exactly a poem)

Have you ever wondered what would happen
if Christians really were reborn?

Would they come forth in a spiritual plasma,
followed by a glowing afterbirth?

Would they cry and turn red, or bring
a deathly silence until spanked by the hand of God?

Who would cut the ambilical cord?
Should it be cut?

Would they be ready to suckle right away,
or wait a few hours, not knowing what they're missing?

Would the labor be painful and long?
Would she heave and cramp?
Would she doubt the joy to come?
Who said birth was beautiful?

Would she scream and wish it away?

I think
yes.

A History of Domestic Violence

When children became "rugrats"

When every man in the office
wore a "wife beater"
under his crisp, white shirt

When the fellow in that movie
last night said
"mother fucker"

When you called my brother a "nigger"
and my sister a "bitch"

Language at 19 Months

After one of our seminar sessions on Bonaventure and Aquinas, two medieval philosophers/theologians, my fellow students and I were discussing the continuim of existance and the concept of existential fading. Perhaps we are more real at some moments and less so in others. There were several in our conversation who joked that existance was gained through the passage of time, a chronological acquisition of being. But I wonder, perhaps we are more real earlier in life, and become less so (not in all senses of the word) as we grow old and are jaded, hurt, socially constructed into gender, racial, and socio-economic roles.

These thoughts have been swimming around for quite some time now, and this summer, after the death of a young child in my community, "Language at 19 Months" was born. It has remained in a rough state.

Language at 19 Months
for Corbin and Karith


things are very simple here
yes means yes and no is flexible
we know this

pain hurts we do not want that
but when it comes we cry
i curl up somewhere and wait

you see laughter is sure to follow
we laugh because we’re happy
sometimes it’s hard to laugh alone

the sun is bright here
it burns my eyes and nose
a girl gives me her hat

she’ll be my friend forever
forever is longer than we’ll live
she’ll be my friend forever

there’s glitter here too
the darkness even sparkles

colors are colored a thousand times thick
someone smiled at me
her skin must have been layers and layers

and oh how i wanted to match
so i hugged her face with my hands
she left glitter on my fingers

a woman closes her eyes and talks to the sky
says she wants to see its face
i do