Memories of Violence

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I saw the moon sail behind a cloud
and I crumpled and cried,
hanging on a lonely dirt playground
(and there's nothing warlike about these
crumpled fingers driven through the aged hair);
the moon, once upon a little night, is covered.

I am hanging, every night, to the sound of
old young feet on the dirt, chased by
memories of violent superstition.  Night stretches,
hangs on like a prisoner's enduring teeth.

I am tired of washing my hands of not
following - in this country, what is taken, is gone.
      Disappeared.

I am tired of trying to return to the awakening
of sadness, when all that I have left is dulled pain,
memories of violence.

Sometimes it feels like a young hand holds tight
our painful, gasping fingers, and we hold our Peace
            (which is all we wanted) and
say, 'it was a short time, and a long time ago, but we can hear their
  heartbeat.  Sometimes we listen to it.  And we live
with the lonely pain of mothers lost, caged in their town
by the sunset.

Maybe this road which you will remember can be
at last a beatiful tribute
but we are standing...working...

I can speak of this many times more
in this silence.


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