What You Have Taken

“It’s tricky when

you feel someone
has done
something on your behalf ”
“Desired Constellation,” from Medulla by Bjork

Six in the morning, Yogyakarta.

No semblance to last night’s
fiery performance staged
at an ancient temple
for our paying pleasure.

I roam alone with a borrowed camera

thinking of taking
random shots.

Rickshaws of faded red

line the edges
of the road, now just waking.

The feet of a curled up rickshaw driver stick out

of the passenger’s seat.
His toes so round, so still.
Dirt smoothed in with the skin
of his soles.
An umbrella over the rest of him
for when the sun grows
unbearable.

I snap.  Without asking permission,

I take that photograph.
Then I turn around and there’s an old man
smiling.  A little boy is strapped
to his back with a red blanket.

The boy doesn’t smile.  He looks at me

straight in the eye.
I have the same color skin, but he knows
I am not from here.

The sounds I make are only similar

to the words they know.  So I gesture,
with the camera, with a finger, a request.

And he nods.  Gives an even wider smile.

The boy remains still,
his feet dangling on the sides of the old man
as I take my time
focusing.

Years later I have these photos. 

One like of someone dead,

faceless, unknown.

The other of two different generations.

One who must have wailed to witness

the murders of those he knew or loved
while the rest of the world slept.

And that staring child.

October 2007
Water Renders
for Margaret Christine Ziffo

Our footsteps muffled by moistness

of earth.  Soft as prayers
our voices.

I have never spoken like this.

Not even to myself.  It is our presence
in this landscape.

Stillness of pine trees veiled

by sheerest mist.
Rice terraces hewn beyond time.

The sound of distant thunder,

so distant it seems
more like a memory shared.

Somewhere else, in centuries

we can no longer recall,
we must have lived this same moment.

Water renders the texture of this earth

to cling to our feet.  Reminding us
forever of the caverns beneath Sagada.
Rivers, jagged edges, dark realms we left
unvisited.  Perhaps for another time.
For now, we delve into spaces

Made intimate by words

and silences.  Our breaths
ethereal.

May 2000
The Scar Examined at Midnight

tell me about that.  that scar.

it is a burn.  something has grown

over it that mimics skin.
feel.

my memory goes blurry

when you smoke.
i know you need to, but please don’t. 
or i won’t tell you the story.

it is not a burn. 
more like a reminder.
like some people stick notes
above doorknobs

so as not to forget
something they must take
before leaving.

i threw my arms around this woman

who wanted to leap into the fire.
but it was too late.

we held each other too late.

tell me about that.

yes, tell me about that.

August 1998
 The Side of Love
“I will continue to humanize even the enemy... The first teacher who
taught me Hebrew was a Jew. The first love affair in my life was with a
Jewish girl. The first judge who sent me to prison was a Jewish woman.
So from the beginning, I didn’t see Jews as devils or angels but as
human beings. These poems take the side of love not war.”
Mahmoud Darwish

You saw a country

Where the sky was a fleeting scarlet
Not from blood, but from thrashing
Limbs of flames at day’s end: sunset.

Something so predictable and expected,

Taken for granted in other lands,
Something that will outlive
The skin of tanks.

It was never a distant dream. It was both

Memory and longing, like the caress
Of the women you loved
Who should have been your enemy.

You cherished that country, kept it

Inside where those who sought to conquer
Could never find a point of entry,
Not with a bullet, not with calculated misery.
Even as the rest of the world
Spun away into darkness and forgetting,
You kept that gaze, that awe, that burden,
So close to your fragile heart.

It puzzles us, this path you have left

That is not on any map.

June 2010
 The Iron Giant Crushes Disney

Our children have questions

that cannot be answered
by a Disney song
and dance sequence
What’s a bomb?
At five, neither of them
will be silenced
by lies, we know that.
So we struggle to tell them.
What does it do?
And a disturbing silence
settles in their eyes
for a while.

They watch the missile in the distance

the threat of an end
to every thing and every one living
in that small town.
Why do people do that?
They understand the Iron Giant chooses
not to be a gun,
but to be
a shield from destruction.
Why?
One day they will have another question,
I hope,
about the absence
of Iron Giants in this world.
But why?

January 2008