At the Pond

At the Pond

BLACK SAINTLINESS

I am black,
not of the darkness,
but evidence of sameness
Of the Maker’s wheel.
not condemned,
but redeemed,
from the yoke of ignorance.

They treat me with dread,
fear to give me bread,
and leave me as dead,
my tears are white,
my blood is red,
my intellect as sharp,
In every flower,
through the winds,
into every depth
across the meadows
I see HIS greatness
and in simple worship,
forgive them their ignorance.

after seven years

of pounding the streets
he got a job
and went home
for the traditional blessing
his happy mother prayed
as she gently placed
the horsetail
on his shoulder
“You will not walk
on the day
the road is hungry.”

He didn’t,
we picked his charred bones
when the exploding fuel tanker
hit his bedroom.

Roadside explosion

the kick of the fetus
brought her to her feet
a dark silhouette against
the desert ocean.

the gathering ball of
dust
of the fleeing jeep
took him away
from lust of war.

in the desert
face to face
she stared at him
a nightmare from her dreams
his scarred staring eyes
jaded from the screams
of constant mortar fire.

her swollen belly,
the fruit of their explosions
across the haze of
mutual hate and suspicion,
her pain from tribal rejection
and shame,
they stepped across
the chasm of their pain
as the soldier
mid-wifed the newborn
of the rejected bride.