the child with closed eyes said
he isn’t
but he was
looking into the dirt yard
into the sandbox to see
who would meet his eyes
he beheld the work of their hands:
mud pies, stolen knucklebones,
ants with the wings pulled off
neighbours passed in the streets
and averted their eyes
he heard the child say
he isn’t
and folded his hands
and waited
Lord of the apple seed and interstellar space,
of stillbirths and the green flash of sunset,
of Pleiades, fossils, black-tailed deer
and the unfurling flower of science,
have mercy upon us.
Lord of open and folded hands,
of canticles and broken strings,
of salt and thyme, tea leaf and myrrh,
of darkened moon and dusty road,
grant us your peace.
Lord of limericks and open minds,
of the lexicons of Greek and Cree,
of decimals, verbs, iambic verse
and the starfields of philosophy
have mercy upon us.
Lord of steel beams and concrete dust,
of scorched and blistered city ground,
of arms and air and fingernails
and the terrific shout of death,
grant us your peace, grant us your peace,
grant us your peace.
He rolled in the dust behind the temple
with the rabbi’s youngest daughter.
She was so lovely,
her breasts like new figs.
Afterwards he gave her red lilies,
bright coins, well water.
They promised to marry
when her first blood came.
He waited by the well for her,
dawn and dusk he waited,
and the morning dark he saw her.
She stood in the trail of a lamp
at the far edge of town, in the house
of the merchant from Bethlehem.
Robed in purple, oiled and jeweled,
her face was turned away,
and in the courtyard by lamplight
her belly was curved like the wind.
Copyright 2004-2005 :: The New Pantagruel 1.1.