It is the mosaic scene on the ceiling
that helps you bare the line. & then you
notice a single colored body building a
nation amongst a hard-hat army of white.
You recall receiving news of a relative that
made it elsewhere, via waves, on a vessel too
small to hold its burden. You imagine some
ancestor must have made it here, via waves,
to build a nation not their own. But you didn’t
make it here with the trauma of a journey. Your
journey was via wings, belongings strapped on a
shoulder & rolled on four wheels. & after an officer
inspects your passport & your body, his phone call
escorts you to a separate room, while the mosaic
scene observes the episode from the ceiling above.
––For Herbert Marcuse
Contesting what is
Envisioning what could be.
The following piece is an edited version of my contribution to a collaborative effort called Poets for Peace on the blog ForgottenMeadows. To learn more and to contribute to the fabulous initiative, visit forgottenmeadows.wordpress.com.
Is a river
Rage a wave
You & I forge
Solace in the
The swaying dance of
Stone parishes chanting
Vespers & intonations.
Together we dwell in &
Out of time
A present exit, so to speak,
From reverberating blasts
On breaking news abroad &
Popping clips & sirens nearby
Our space is collected
In the union of
Where we hold close,
At least for now,
In growing pains of