“the waltz of a juvenile carcass”

My mother gave me a signed copy of Susan Meiselas' account of Nicaragua. It is a topic I'm completely unfamiliar with, but was interested to at least take a look at as it is a country which neighbors El Salvador where I will be for a service trip toward the end of next month. I flipped through the color pages, but was struck hard by the image on page sixteen. This distressed child, with his arms hanging uncomfortably in forced decency did his job: he caught my attention. It surprises me that his hands are not in fists and that his face is not littered with tears to complement the soot and sorrow lingering within his charred soul from god knows what atrocity. I tried to bring him to life.

“the waltz of a juvenile carcass”

a listless face, (my god) --

the eyes will get you the most.

or trace your fingers in lines across

tortured lips, and salted lacerations

and tell me (i beg of you): “life goes...”

on for a shaded-skin confession

of a child. He who has committed

no crime but yet has to lean forward

in shoulder-arching guilt

for the sake of clearing His mind.

His fingertips swell with the dirt

that sustains and reminds Him.

“mother, father; look at me,”

He says; in irrelevant dialect.

“I’m still here.”

a declaration as He places

His hands at His sides,

and recedes a useless tongue.

He frowns for the camera just

so you can see Him, then wanders

for hours in search of crumbs.

He tries His best to distinguish them

from the refuse that tickles

at His stinging feet and causes His ears

to ring in memorium:

sinister laughs drifting around

shouldered rifles, a sense of fear

locked away with a lack of coffins.

and the feeling He gets when He notices

fire... the sense of bitter warmth

perverted by loud shrieks,

mother’s grasp cut short.

so you can imagine father,

a tough looking soul,

rising occasionally from soot

and ash to tell the boy to count His blessings.

to be sure to dress nicely and smile.

to fill His head with dreams of escape,

and long walks under golden arches.

but papa knows, better than any,

that soon He will greet his blessed son.

face down in a back-alley corner,

dressed in His finest cloth.

nothing on His mind but clots of red:

His only sense of

hope.