There must be meaning behind a will, there must be healing.
Night deepens but I cannot sleep,
a lily pond glows drowsy koi floating by
a moonlit walk in the park.
Is there a reason to feel the loss of so many I never knew,
did I help herd them to slaughter
my twisted heart pounding like artillery,
how did I not hear the screams — a world running away
and toward them,
I have never known shackles, handcuffs
a lynch mob-knot tightening
how do we not hear them running to us today
their losses and grief not obscure, simply actively ignored.
And what can I say to the One who watches
who unborn before all
brooded over water
set his face a light upon the sea, spoke stars into being?
“I know your face like a stranger’s on a train
one I remember but cannot place
perhaps you never were,
you are a fabrication of death and fear.”
but it would not satisfy.
There must be healing in his will, there must be meaning.
It was an intention I would nearly regret
a long reflection
looking into beginning-less time
for a swastika of love, a face dripping
redemptive blood, a man burning
under the Bodhi tree–
The monk sat in the middle of a Saigon street
motionless in meditation,
gas and jet fuel poured over him
he lit the match.
There must be healing in her will or there is no meaning.