That tree is at least a hundred
no maybe a hundred twenty feet tall he said
I should be able to take her down
so he came back with chainsaws
men and trucks and the smell of gasoline reeking
and I gave him my Judas money
while they limbed the upper branches
we can’t do this job without a crane he said
she’s much taller than we thought
yes she's formidable I thought
so more trucks came and more silver
was exchanged for the men
and their reaping tools
did the killing I asked of them like a man
who doesn’t want his hands dirty
whose victim does not die slowly
but then it was done
and it was quiet
and I was alone
and I went to the wide shallow body
you were beautiful but you were also a threat
as many beautiful things are and I hope
someday I will be strong enough to choose
beauty.
(brad, this was a reply to your prompt)
//
when those who thirst
for war refuse to drink
it’s bitter body and
pay no toll to return
our bodies home
we carry wild seeds
within our ribcage to
bloom from rebar
from anywhere
//
Tell me where to point my water cannon
of rage
//
In the summer I would sit with my father
and look northwest like druids smelling rain
and teasing the storm believing the iron calamity
would roll by like a hand and we would regard
the back of God walking off and behold the quaking.
//
In the summer I would sit with my father looking northwest
with our faces held up like penitents waiting for grace to fall
to wash us the way sinners always need washing
sometimes clean
sometimes away.
//
I do not confuse divinity with goodness
because all our gods have their ways
with us and through us and sometimes
for us but not always
I think we may have made that part up
because we need to mean something
and if god is not our kind of good
what kind of god is that?
//
I am not sure that yelling is going to do much for us
because I saw a woman yelling outside and the city
moved around her, swallowed her, silenced her
the way violinists are ignored in train stations
and expectations have everything to do with
acceptance.
//
what are we hoping for
some kind of revival
revival is what got us here
we are always chasing
revival and refusing its
burden
//
it’s weird to normalize death
like on TV my kids see the b-movie news crew
filming grief like bad actors
and after years of looking at bills on the kitchen table
it’s weird to wish my death only be burdenless for them
be swiftly forgotten like the shooting in the north-end
so grief does not spill the brimming cup of sorrow
we carry between daybreaks
my loves pour it out
and be done with it.
//
I was born on a Friday and I only know this because of the online drop down selections when you scroll back to the year and month and date and I see it and always had a fondness for the day because the world generally hopes for the weekend the way Good Friday points to Sunday and that paradox of putting death before life is a backwards way to think of things, like saying goodnight to begin the day, but it could be better like this, to assume an end is always a stone roll away from a start, that the end is a rose-petaled dawn breathing on the garden.
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