(TW: SV & CA)
Good Friday Morning, 2015
Birds call to the sun,
come warm us, come warm us,
quick, the spring is late,
the night was long,
come warm us, for we followed you north, dear sun.
So it does, as it must, come rolling over us, warm and very far away.
In the wetland, the beaver are up to their secret plans,
signs of their crossing and crissing everywhere,
a branch stuck vertically in the mud, a marker,
we begin here, soon the water will rise for us,
come water, come water, shelter our pups,
for the eagles never leave now and hunt all day.
Dogue Creek runs on, easy and sure, to the Potomac,
through Washington’s hunting grounds, then past his house,
to become the great seas, nourish clams in the bay,
maybe pass through the gills of another perfect shark
with her mantra, where, where, where is it, where, where,
where will I close my teeth, as she eases over the deep.
And you, with your tiny ambition and your quaking god,
you spent last night rubbing a toddler against you,
you grinning beyond reason, beyond any forgiveness,
and you tore her, and tore her again as she cried out,
her cries more exciting than any woman,
and then you took her back to her mother, saying,
now know, your people will die from the earth,
and I did not stop you.
(c) 2015 MFSR/PoMoRed