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That the trees weep
when we haste to waste
and the world tilts
to unclog its ears
from talks of war.
That pressure points
never break the skin
unlike the impact of
a memory.
That you so much
have said that
you have done
your best, and I am
still lying open,
like an unrelished book.
That loathing is as evident
as fine print and atrocities--
continuances of indignation
and when the faint light dies
we become refugees of dark thoughts
and prisoners of a wretched moment.
That I will always mourn
Morocco or the Himalayas
where I seem to fly
awake in my dreams
and that I shall continue walking
toward the sea
with everything of you
before planes crashed
before buildings burned
before the world rebelled
all the way to the silence
of your mother's womb
©2002, Christina Querrer
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O, butterfly! If you only knew the beauty
Of your exposed reply that castigated the cage--
But sudden death awaited as you pried apart your shell.
How awful, too, for the lion's catch twitching
In its mouth, born it seems, exactly for that purpose.
Birds ascending for migration
Remain in the ear by their splintered sound,
And sharp air left a gash in the day
Which went on scarring the nights.
Pity the silent order of things here in the tangle
Where bellies and hearts yearn for reach;
Tongues singed and throats thirsting
For the dankness of downfall.
©2002, Christina Querrer
These poems first appeared in the Babaylon Series at Meritage Press.
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