On nights the moon stands
solemn faced and the stars
half-hang, half-float like fireflies
suspended in glowing martyrdom
and the breeze rasps secrets of the
crucified to anyone who’ll listen,
I step out. Crunching grass beneath my
feet, worms between my toes, ears pressed
to ground, waiting -
like stethoscope to patient’s heart,
I attune myself to Earth’s pulse
(not the throbbing in my ear) but the
shuddering recoil as shell
shatters ground, the silent moan as
body plunges face forward
into dirt.
Somewhere, a mother returns her son to
soil. Bowing deeply, her tears baptize
the spot. They quiver for a moment, like
final echoes of a lullaby many years
unsung, then disappear beneath
black earth.
I still taste salt
in these blades of grass - my
tongue stings with remembering, my
ears acknowledge pain. I am Antaeus - bound
to the soil, the secret sacrifice of its
pulse, but for this I will not cry -
Only for the dream of a bullet-startled dove
who discovers nothing
but a trick
of pebbles and wind.