The Sarin Fields Outside Aleppo
It begins with a schoolteacher dead
in the trees.
It begins in another town.
Even the greeks thought the city
would finally be revealed
flat as glass.
Black tea brewing
in a large rusted coffee tin
isn’t the death of duality’s
hapless prosecutorial friend
His broad red hem drags
over the rocks of an old road
where Saul found the light
full and embryonic,
lodged in him. He was a prick
of the exemplary life. And a clerk.
A steam-whistle off on the horizon
and the ghost of polity
in its long gown is walking
through the city carrying a sunset
on its shoulders. It is not proud.
This sack of birth can have
like a litter of cats.
It was not sound. It was the light that opened him up.
No one told him
to cut the heavy flesh of the chord —
leaning against a dusty column
the placenta of iron and hair
slapped the stones of the road:
it was the very night. It was cold.
April 29, 2013about the author