A Reckoning

There must be meaning behind a will, there must be healing.
Night deepens but I cannot sleep,
the lily pond glows drowsy goldfish floating by
a moonlit walk in the park.
Is there an answer to why I feel the loss of so many I never knew
did I help herd them into slaughter
my twisted heart pounding like artillery,
how did I not hear the screams of so many– the world running away
and toward them, why
have I never felt shackles, handcuffs
the lynch mob-knot tightening
how do we not hear them running toward us today
their grief so wide impossible to imagine or hold, unaccounted for.

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 could say…
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 regret
that long reflection
to look into beginning-less time
to find a swastika of love, a face dripping
redemptive blood– “Some of them that work forces
are the same that burn crosses.” —
to motionless meditation the monk sat down
they poured a can of gas and jet fuel over him
he struck the match.
There must be healing in her will or there is no meaning.

 

 

RageAgainsttheMachineRageAgainsttheMachine            Rage Against the Machine

Facing History & Ourselves

The Swastika of Love

Buddhist Manji or Swastika

 

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