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Now that you have what is called freedom,
does slaughter still come after laughter?
and what do I tell my daughter
who is wind over land, in the grave?
We break like sod in the palm, witness
utter despair, yet the world goes on.
Because of my sins I can barely ask,
Father, are You the One who confesses?
Oh lost cosmos, before and after
your fall, is it Fate, Truth, that fail us all?
They're frantically bound to our phrases.
green grass-blood aches in the shadows,
kernels of wood smoke lick the black
heart of humanity. Your ten hands,
a thousand cemeteries in the mountains,
wait for partisans to ambush
the mercenaries who flash blue eyes
at the sun, then turn back to scour
the villages where women and children
also wait, for the long stares to explode
like mortars, bullets and rockets.
In this country the mad hesitate
to follow orders: which lead to gurneys,
isolation rooms, where they strap us down
and stuff feathers past our tongues.
We pass out, fall into a wonderful world
beyond death, beyond idea, without breathing.
If you see my shadow waking, and hear
the clock ring thirteen, then you've witnessed
their crimes against imagination:
the men and women with dwarfish thoughts
who swarm among the classical ruins:
white-faced gods arming themselves in secret,
with papers, summons, writs, and decrees.
At bay, the harbor pumps decay, debris,
rivers choke and fish flush, belly-up.
At the pubs, the well-groomed patrons,
push, shove, and posture, drink exotic beer,
as their ringed fingers fondle the glasses.
They trade their fantasies of expensive
women for weapons shipped to the east,
grin and snort, like those without eyes
who hear the smells, eat their hearts.
They own this day, and the future, they say.
Who knows why the fearful passersby
fly to the distance with a pigeon's grace.
I wish I could have visited that museum
before it was looted, examined all the treasures,
and told the people how much I grieved
for their country, and for mine too.
If there had been a General like He,
and I had been invited to his garden,
I would have let him know how much
I love the sand and pebbles of the desert,
how much I adore the stars. But, I imagine
if I had, the people would have been afraid,
and run off calling for their God.
Blood laps the banks of the Tigris
and there are many who complain,
but our voices aren't heard by those
who believe soldiers and civilians
are born to die in sand. And what
do these new ghosts say to the old
who have gone before them? Their bones
lie thick and uncollected, their bodies
bombed and discarded by the roadside.
Here, in the safety of home, I wonder,
Who hears them on the darkest nights?
Who listens under the stark mad sun?
The moon comes up swimming
over the eastern peaks, a lovely
mermaid, charming and naked.
But the climate has changed;
few clear nights, and days with variable
winds and extreme highs and lows.
Spring is still a spoiled child here,
and whimsical with bird music.
Many would like more stability,
but the despots flourish in this chaos.
Here, I could always roll the dice
and end up penniless, yet blissful.
Leonard J. Cirino is from Springfield, Oregon. He has a new chapbook available from March Street Press called After Yang Chi & Others.