Imperfect Sacrifice

 I'm sorry to tell your tale

because you were human,

and if I am honest,

no human is good enough

that someone would not see

the perfectly decent reason

you "had" to be dispatched.

Even if it was part your humanity

and part their invention.

Even if you spoke untruths sprung from 

the lies that murdered those around you.

Even if your anger was 

altogether understandable if, and only if

they could stand where you did. 

They don't and say:

You should have forgiven like a saint.

You should have pierced through 

the fog and foghorn of war. 

You should have written purely

of beautiful and doomed things,

never the ire of nationalism or

the pride of seeing oppressors

(or so supposed)

brought down. 

They will deny it was wrong because.

Because.

Because. 

The cause.

I don't believe in angels. 

I've never flown a kite. 

I believe in freedom and

the imperfect power of poetry

in the Celtic tradition of some of my ancestors

to lay a curse in verse that

circumvents the power structure

to create a new channel and do

almighty things. Not because poets are perfect people.

(Fuck no.)

Because we are fucked up enough to be recognized

as very human and make, therefore,

the perfect imperfect sacrifice--

we do get gone,

but the words live on. 

And you saw the arrow aimed for you

and named it. And I am not

going to name it anything else. 

A slaughtered goat

that purifies no gate

imperfectly made

in a world of hate.