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.