WHITE SHEET

 

1. DEATH

This war commutes through
veins spreading its tender
game
Darkness is eternal and love is
hidden behind hearts
No country will sentence itself to
tears
We're all too respectable for that
Damn you!
We are hugging something
deeper than a body

2. WAR

With our eyes quiet, we weep
Looking at the soldier's bodies, they
seem only asleep with numb mouths
Speech is avoided
We are sad

3. THE FEAST

Write this down little fingers
Our bones are coded
One tibula painted red--an easy break non-chewable
One femur painted green--a home to crawl under
The remainder of bones are sacrificial
The ground needs some
reminder of skeleton

4. RESURRECTION

What is this? A miracle of heaven or fragments
of mistakes?
Some bones push up out of the casket,
out of the earth towards the sun
Flowers announce their presence in pastel colors-
a museum piece
The public gathers
Everyone is confused on this day
The sentence is on us now
Death from a compass that was
false
We moved in the wrong direction
Our heart, our love, is forever vacant

5. AFTER

Now sadness loves us
Pray for the bones in the cemeteries
Holy water is a vision stuck to this void
When we thirst for the earth, we will
exist for hands --they travel
our image to our soul
We will invent a quiet transaction that
only we can invent
Play it safe love, the final page
is free
Accept it

 

El MOZOTE
"but she had so rubbed her eyes from grief
that all she had seen could be seen in them
."
THE MASSACRE AT EL MOZOTE
Mark Danner


Bones on the side of the path are
collected, put into sacks.
I want to grab them. Empty them on
the ground and make a pattern of a skeleton.
How many sacks must I have to do this?
This is like playing pick-up sticks.
I could have the skull of my Mother, arm of a friend, leg of
my Father, and ribs of an unknown formed into a human skeleton.
I have lived my life consuming these bones.
Arm loads for loving.

How gentle the sky looks today.
My vision is clear. Funny, how red the soil is.
Blood releases itself into a masterpiece.
A photographer takes a photo. Trying to open
the closed lips of the world.
Such speechless despair! When you look at the
pictures, will you wash yourself, feel your flesh,
sing a song, and live to remember?
Your life seems luxurious. Mine is strange,
empty like a shadow.
I see flowers form on the bullets as they ricochet
over me. When they hit someone, I see waves of dreams never happening.

All these years, the knife gets deeper.
The machete gets quicker.
This view is sad. It floats in the air and then
crashes into the living arms.
Hold tight this horror and weep.
Time will freeze the image.

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