Say Good-Bye

Say River. Say bloody current. Say not enough rice.
Say mother and father. Say village bell calling.
Say village drum calling. Say music through the trees

from someone’s lonely radio. Say mango
sliced into the woman’s open hands.
Say rice, steaming just in time. Say paths

worn by the naked feet of lovers. Say lovers
who must hide in the mango groves,
even to say good-bye.


Back to Top


Portal

In our hallucination, the children are instructed
in the ways of finding shelter
when the rain of our bombs comes down
on their small villages and schools. The children
can identify our planes, and
what our planes can do to them. They

sleep the sleep of weary warriors
beaten down and left for nothing in their lonely deaths
that come so slowly you would wish
your own heart empty of blood.
I watched the people gather in the street
to stop the war that is the war against ourselves,
against the children who practice finding our planes
before they’re blown up into dust
nobody sees, but that
makes a sound like the vanquished.


Back to Top


Late Summer Lilies

I kiss the late summer lilies because they want me to,
and how do you say no to lilies
dying of beauty you can barely stand to see.
I don’t know if I heard a voice or not, or anything at all,
except the dangerous wind. Nothing else to say

in this great Republic of Voices, this Republic of Lies.
Into the darkness to see I was called,
and to taste the salty flesh,
and to suck sweet juice from the lilies, holes in the sky
moving away from us like nothing we’ve ever seen.

Back to Top