Poems

Ten men are dressed in orange prison suits,

their hands bound behind their backs,

ten more in black uniforms, faces

swathed in black scarves. Each man

is matched with another, orange, black

orange, black as they march

in sand along the shore of a silent sea.

The men in orange kneel, each black-

clad man standing behind with a knife.

We fear the worst and, in this universe,

the worst happens.

            But in that other place, the place

of peace, the men in black drop their knives

and throw their masks into the sand.

They unbind their brothers

and help them step out of the prison

suits. They shed forever their black

uniforms. Now twenty young men

stand nude in the bright sun.

They turn to the sparkling sea

and run into the water, each man

diving and splashing until he is cool

and refreshed. They help each other

onto the shore and into the shade,

share tea and sugar dates, discuss

their future plans: a marriage, an import-

export business, a wing on the house

for an old parent, for children.

They say: I would like to know more

about you, who are so much like me.

There are seven billion people in the world.

Every second—every millisecond—thousands die

like drops of water rushing together

over a vast falls.

But on this particular day,

the old ladies gasping on mats in the corner of huts

or in hospices and hospitals, and the old men gazing at the ceiling

from their death beds, lived to see the sun rise once again.

Pedestrians walked safely down the sidewalks of the world,

and drunk drivers plowed into snow banks or hedges

instead of people or trees. Skiers also avoided trees,

and no boys hoping for paradise wrapped themselves in dynamite

to haunt the market places of Afghanistan or Syria

or Iraq. Mothers all over the world selected apples and coconuts,

mangos and pomegranates to take home on what seemed like a normal day.

But on this particular day, the epidemiologists

had a few more hours to unravel the secrets of Ebola, HIV/AIDS,

malaria. The little boy, alone in a sterile room in Liberia

could look through the plastic window at his mother for one more day.

No one noticed this miracle—the ICU nurse simply noticed

that all of her patients seemed to rally a little, and the hospice

volunteer went from bed to bed smiling into the quiet faces

of those who waited, some with hope, others—on this particular day—

with less resentment than usual.

City morgues caught up on their backlogs

because, as sometimes happens, there were no

murders on this particular day, and no kids falling out of windows

or into ponds or out of cribs, no Dads slipping on ice

or falling off ladders stringing lightsor clearing gutters. Firemen

ate lasagna and were grateful for an uneventful day.

Far away, in those places we send soldiers

but never go to ourselves, everyone seemed

to just sit down and smoke a cigarette, or a pipe,

or a hookah, and have a cup of coffee.

They all seemed to be waiting—waiting

for something all of them wanted.

On this particular day, everyone lived.

The world was not for me, but for my brothers,

the horses, the science kits, the classrooms,

the rough training for the world, which was not

for me, but for my husbands, the work, the money,

the camaraderie over drinks and waitresses, which

was not for me but for my fathers, the wives, the tidy

homes and waiting children, the warm bed,

which was not for me.

            I beat the chest of my soul.

The clear path was not for me but for the scions,

the boys of promise and grace, their football fields,

the locker room and all its promises, which was not

for me but for the scholars, their tutors, the books

and allowances, the mighty potential, which

was not for me but for the junior partners,

their swaddles of opportunity, the slap on the back,

which was not for me.

            I bite the tongue of my mind.

The audience was not for me but for the speakers,

their podiums and printing presses, the bull horns which

were not for me but for the soldiers, their flags and taxes,

the guns and petroleum, their certainty of righteousness

which was not for me but for the kings, the popes, the presidents,

their parades and treasure, their chest of ribbons,

which was not for me.

            I brandish the fist of my bowels.

The Church was not for me but for the Adams,

the ones who look like You in their secret bodies,

like the Father and the suffering Son in his ribs

and rags, which were not for me but for the saints,

their faith and miracles. Only the martyrs,

their persecutions, their resistance, the hopes

of forgiveness for their jealousy, their cowardice,

their despair, Pantokrator, are for me.

            I bend the knee of my heart.

                                    for Geun-Ae Park

It’s what they do at her Korean temple

when something is amiss with the spirit:

kneel, bend head to rug,

lift hands palms up

then stand again,

like a river flowing backward,

before falling forward once more

on your knees

in a smooth wave.

She will do this a thousand times

to expiate the anger in her breast

at her professor, who makes her work

long hours in the laboratory

who shouts at her,

takes credit for her research—the man

she tries not to hate.

If she bows a thousand times

he will shrink in the waves of worship

that wash her soul.

It takes twelve hours

to bow away the man

who tries to bend her

to his will.

Walk nude through the house,
holding a breast in each hand,
feeling their liquid weight shift
as you walk; feeling, 
as you lift them up, 
that you are young again,
that they are at once your children
and yourself; knowing
that these companions rise and fall
in solidarity with you; that you
may have to give them up
one by one
to save yourself;
that they will be sacrificed,
these flowing solids,
these kissing stations,
these secret reservoirs,
for you; knowing
that you will keen for them
as for lost children, feel the guilty
weight of blood money.
Walk naked through the house, 
hold them now as you might cherish
your old parents,
your memories of youth:
ask forgiveness, be reconciled, 
before they go.