that the child may be
by jeanne rene watson
Friday, February 13, 2004
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until ... somewhere in country
soldier gripping the wheel of a 1972 mustang
... damned basket
For a Moment Unforgivable
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I will crawl on my hands and knees
to the shrine of the lady,
bleeding ecstasy, dust caking my nose
to the humble steps of your miracle.
I can walk shoeless under your domes,
and in supplication, my face toward
your most scared place, inhaling
the complexity of your geometry
. . . that I may be.
on the day
we found the fire
we passed it
hand to hand
flinching at it’s bite
at night we sat
outside its heat
there was no name
who caught the fire
An eternity of faces
of eyes rising
on the horizon of an early dawn,
Cascading in timelines
to our eyes sealed
with this day’s setting sun.
I can walk your narrow allies laden with meats.
Sup from balconies above your burdened streets,
and sow your every field plowed with swollen feet
. . . that we may be.
I can feast most heartily in the calm
of the ancient’s winter solstice, and
as you offer the earth your gratitude
stand in the circle of candlelight.
I will drape the embroidered shawl
over my bowed shoulders,
and in the morning’s faithful call
join you at the wall of sorrow.
with our new light
we carried a promise
the one flame
from all sides
of the fire
A chaos of one vision.
song of one word,
in the manors and gutters,
drifting above the sands,
echoed in the valleys.
I will sit in silence at the foot of the shrine.
I can sleep with the bones of my father.
I can lay down in the river, reborn
. . . that the child may be.
in the light
of the fire, and
we closed our eyes
to the shifting lights
in the sky
but even in
have been . . .
jeanne rené 10/03