By Luke
Oh
When I saw him die
I no longer
cared about the trembling the tears
no one walks these streets except
the very few
and the solitary runners
choke me I cannot breathe against
the rhythm sorrow beats into my
throat
I moved into the morning and I will
sit against this tree
seven days they say
seven days of tattered shirts I no longer
care let the holes be seen seven
times seven I have found this place and I
will
stay
No I cry and no I whisper
and no one
cares that I am
become the Pietà without a child
even that
even that
And I hum “Oh,
Mary,
Don’t You Weep” and she is now
here with me
saying No you will you must drain your
heart
until the others come
and the others will
This tree is not shelter not from
the devouring fire it burns
forever and our scars
pulse
with the rage that cannot sound
when the others come
I will
know that we will
then unclench
our swollen fingers
Our hands will drum our sorrow
into this ground
Yes I see
you glance at me yes I am
the one who whispers each
child’s name if I cannot hold
them to my breast I will
hold them with my song
Yes
live child you live
and this
tree and I will be the place where
no lie can live
