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 Rendersfor 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 countryWhere the sky was a fleeting scarletNot 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 outliveThe 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 conquerCould never find a point of entry, Not with a bullet, not with calculated misery.

Even as the rest of the worldSpun 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 questionsthat cannot be answeredby a Disney songand dance sequence What’s a bomb?At five, neither of themwill be silencedby lies, we know that.So we struggle to tell them. What does it do?And a disturbing silencesettles in their eyesfor a while.

They watch the missile in the distancethe threat of an endto every thing and every one livingin that small town. Why do people do that?They understand the Iron Giant choosesnot to be a gun,but to bea shield from destruction. Why?One day they will have another question,I hope, about the absenceof Iron Giants in this world. But why?

January 2008