Mother's Day
The First Night
It is dark in the desert
tonight. The stars are distant and cold
and the moon is dark, her face
turned away. But in an ancient city
bombs fall and bright fire blossoms
on the ground. Tracer bullets
make brilliant streaks in the air.
'Like the fourth of July,'
the newsman says. From far away,
I, too, sit in the dark, listening
to guns firing. I light a candle
and place it front of Kwan Shih Yin.
By its light I see tears
on her face.
***
I wrote this during the first night of bombing Iraq in the Gulf War. Tonight, on this full moon years later, things there (and here) are only getting worse. As I write this people are dying—mothers, sons, daughters, fathers—we all belong to someone, we all are kindred and there is no one outside the family cirlce. We all belong to each other.
It is dark in the desert
tonight. The stars are distant and cold
and the moon is dark, her face
turned away. But in an ancient city
bombs fall and bright fire blossoms
on the ground. Tracer bullets
make brilliant streaks in the air.
'Like the fourth of July,'
the newsman says. From far away,
I, too, sit in the dark, listening
to guns firing. I light a candle
and place it front of Kwan Shih Yin.
By its light I see tears
on her face.
***
I wrote this during the first night of bombing Iraq in the Gulf War. Tonight, on this full moon years later, things there (and here) are only getting worse. As I write this people are dying—mothers, sons, daughters, fathers—we all belong to someone, we all are kindred and there is no one outside the family cirlce. We all belong to each other.
© Jessica Macbeth, 2006. All rights reserved. Do not copy or repost without written permission.
posted by Jesa | 11:11 AM
2 Comments:
Your poem touched my heart! I still cry also for the families who are crying.
I also look at numbers. Your post was at 11:11. I like it when numbers are connected in some way.
For me, since I was a child I said, 11:11, I want to go to Heavan. Eleven is the number of revelations. It's a gifted number.
Then when my Dad died the time was 12:12 pm..... I don't know where I'm going with this. I'm rambling on.
*:) It's just that it means something special to me as does your poem.
BeB~
Mary Lynn~
I forgot my log in name....*lol***
Mary lynn> Yes. 11.11, armistice day. I didn't see that before you pointed it out.
Jessica> I really like your poems. You have the gift of capturing the imagination. You know how to make things searingly visible by not showing them.
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