we speak of past
horrors in the dark
as though
these are the worst
of the crimes
we have committed

while

the atrocities perpetrated
by the cold light of day
go by without mention
go by without mourning
and we whistle
while we work

the temptation
is strong
to lift one’s voice
in blind prescience
or rheumy hindsight;
to oneself
and to others;
alone or together;
under the sun
and beneath the moon.

in the end,
one can always
speak of the dead
without boldness
or courage,
but merely with
the faintest effort
of breath.

take all the black
press it all back
crush it all in and
bury it in gravity
hide it inside
the unseen
singularity,
until it sparks
and blazes forth,
an all consuming
brand new star
to burn away the world

cigarette smoke and perfume
is a secret scent memory
that brings you back to me,
a spirit that drifts on the cold,
invisible –
but I,
I can see
your arms outstretched,
arms that once embraced,
arms that once rocked
a harbour in a sheltered sea

once…
before your left for glory

take up the bleached bones
and drape them in coloured flesh
that they may walk in the world
as a Word amongst humanity.

splash filigree gold and emerald green
between these haunted ribs
and imprison a ruby red heart
to beat beneath these bars.

crown this skull with silver halo
so that people will turn and say –

“what manner of monster is this
that went unnoticed and passed by before
as it lay dead in the weeds at our feet,
now beautiful, commands our praise?”

καὶ ὁ λόγος σὰρξ ἐγένετο,
καὶ ἐσκήνωσεν ἐν ἡμῖν

Jim had always thought his daughter Lindy was like a jar of pickles. If something set her off and she got heated by the time she cooled she would seal up tighter than said jar and it could be days before you could get her open no matter how hard you tried.