17 January, 2020
unlike borders, etched in the earth with a knife, headlines are often written
delicate; a fuse, a blast, a city that was and they soften the blow in a language
today’s dead never spoke. i am reminded words always translate
when buried in the earth and carry my eye along a path to meet a barn
that’s battered only by wind. in town, no one mentions bombs in homilies
or at the market. what’s the price of the melon? what, when fields floorboards
hands shake? war is only happening when it’s happening to us
a potter says turning clay from the river into something to press to your lips.
god is like this, i think, an idea you shape in your hands. so i go and dig–
to plant what might feed, to try and outplay a man with a trigger playing god.
in an etch of grass and far from the smoke, this land, holding me safe, is just dumb luck
i did nothing to deserve. it’s the afternoon now and the newscycle
has moved on like it does to a prehistoric plant that’s still kicking
somewhere between when we ask for forgiveness and where we keep the graves.