tributary
a pair of feet linger
under inches of
cold river water.
they frame a face:
a pair of eyes.
and in them light
lingers from below,
projecting whispers of
a broken bottleneck:
sunken deposition.
a pair of hands extend
and so palms are doused
for the sake of glass,
transparent inquisition.
later on, a mouth tells her:
“it really was beautiful!
can you imagine how old
the pair of lips were
that drank from it?”
"Fukushima Daiichi"
red tears weave their way to the center
of white cloth; attracted by seismic pull.
a circle is born: round rouge, emboldened
with thought of water, of torrent,
of rubble rinsed in layers of salt, of
an island of silenced hands stretched out
across dark ocean overflow.
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.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.
