Requiem for A Singer

 Truth is the gift people don't love to accept,

Shuhada, though you realized its worth.

Wide-eyed, shaven artist,

you bore witness to it

and by trying to make others see it too

there were those who rejected you,

even though your voice 

was that of an angel,

and your halo made

of righteous flame. 

But if to say what you feel

is to dig your own grave, why not then

dig one you can stand to lie in, someday? 

Is there a reward for compromise

either in heaven or--? No

no, not even here,

Not for a house in Antigua or

all the fame they can cram you with.

You did not want what 

you did not have because you had 

your whole soul, and you were right:

we need more tearing up of idols

and binding up of our broken selves. 

A Very Normal Bomb

 Nothing will ever even get around to normal anymore--

it will just be new, then new, then new. 

Things can change quicker than you were prepared for,

and your temporary comfort won't be spared.

Think of it this way: someone set a time-bomb,

and it's been ticking your whole life in the background.

You could learn to live with a time-bomb.

You could even learn to love a time-bomb.

Maybe you find the ticking a reassurance--the sound

you've always heard--but softly. A little reminder of

mortality is all. But if you love something,

wouldn't you want to hold it all together? 

If you knew it could all blow apart; throw your arms around it;

try to defuse it, get to the bottom

of what makes it tick? 

What if your beloved was about to ring an alarm?

And then.

And then. 

Nothing would ever be normal again--

it would just be nothing. 

Normal was a time-bomb in your bed.

THAT is what must be unlearned. 

Do Not Forget This

 She was

caught in a snare we would

consider too cruel

for animals,

a teenager who traveled

a long way, tired and pregnant

and she twisted there, caught on the wires

like a fawn trapped

in the shepherd's fence

meant to separate the domestic

from the wild.

And bleeding she plead with her eyes

for herself and her child.

She was bound to a fate

of captured or drowned. 

But then she found,

deeper than the razor cut,

the hope was bled

from her body,

the future she fought for

fallen from her form,

and the silver lining of the American dream

was understood to be steel

and the promise of it--stolen. 

And do not forget that, 

because your ancestor fluttered in a womb

like hers

and a golden lamp lit their way.

And say what you will:

the dream of America beckons still.

Visions in the Water

 The things that will wash up on your block

had species, phyla, names if you want,

but they won't look like

anything they were supposed to.

Unrecorded, their offspring dissolved, 

the last of their kind

swept off the fifth step from the bottom

of your bungalow, 

advertised as two miles from the beach.

Extinction will have

a street name and address

but not a marker. I guess you might 

watch extinction from the second floor

and still not grasp its reach

as you dip your oar in the water

to get eggs laid

in air condition--

guaranteed not spoiled today.

You will know by then it wasn't always the way--

but still not understand

why the vista of the ocean shames

you now, fearing

you will see in it a vision

of what washes up next.

Barely

 Barely healing on a Saturday

from death by a thousand cuts

all week,

after I had kept going with

lashings of antiseptic

and tightly wrapped

in bandages like a mummy,

I have time now.

I unwrap to soak myself

and there's a terrible sound.

I let the wounds flow

and wash them clean.

Sunday I'm almost fit for company.

Monday comes and

I'm fit for work.