"Beatitude: from Syria," "Anxiety at the Borders," and "We have been."

Beatitude: from Syria

they pull the dinghy up and sixty figures, some children,
fall on their knees on the sand, blessing
the grit and the stones, blessing the sharp-edged
pieces of brown glass, the unmoving earth, blessing
blessing they make their way
across the parched island,
to the stony mainland, to the promised North.
This tense dream
the passengers on the rubber raft,
a few still afloat,
if they are lucky,
hold to tight, even while sinking
a hundred meters from shore.



Anxiety at the Borders

we will make them different we smooth their carried from away sand
abraded surface, rub out their words give them new ones that they did not say
give ourselves them so we can know ourselves the wall tells us we are
out behind the wire in back of the gates inside the boxcars but still
something remains the traces. They say they can be found, they can find.  
Where are they, the traces, of the ones who seemed to have less.  They search
the sky, they look for water eventually
they become foam.  They write even now in the sand, with their bones.



We have been.

We were all energy, no matter, never met                                                             We do keep—stored—
metallic edged ribbon     
a brilliant thread the kinetic trail of gleaming promises a string of light between—



We keep the other knowledge as well  that near to blinded as we were, we chose


the constant kaleidoscopic roll of glass retinas … their luminous rattle that
shattered universes into pretty patterns only shared in electronic virtual
(unseeable) electricity conducted through skewed glass veins  but opened wide wide

shards of

(unseeable) electricity conducted through skewed glass veins  but opened wide wide



my body

the fairy tale spell short-circuited by the reality of damp heat and heart’s blood sweating

wet  and


falling  free,

down and  ,  into  ,  watered  ,   carved and branched from crotch to tree.  Reached.


                                                                                                       But look.
                                                                                                       The sparks, our brains, our hearts:
                                                                                                       Hold those, cupped, kissed, charged.




They were there.                                                                               I miss you still.




Edited for Unlikely by Jonathan Penton, Editor-in-Chief
Last revised on Monday, September 13, 2021 - 22:03