[A life less worth than a terrorist's son?]
There must be a book,
a text or sheaf of notes,
a notepad
or a flower
whereupon dreams were inked in
in code or number,
word and
pause.
There must be a handkerchief
reserved for unwept tears
neatly
embroidered with motif of choice
or chance;
a square piece of cloth,
pale pink or white,
speaking of roads walked and unwalked,
thoughts
embraced and shoved aside
suddenly in embarrassment.
But there's nothing
to be shy about, darling.
no reason to shout or whisper.
At least that's
what the road sign demands.
They want it to be all gone, dearest,
erased
by the burgeoning dictates of our tomorrows,
the paraphernalia of the
diurnal,
the return to the segmenting of life
into intersections, traffic
lights and fears;
brushed aside by the next great explosive sweep
that is
the marker of these times.
The gatherer of dream,
the translator of
unwritten texts
and impossible poetry:
they've refused contract.
No
one dares access the transcripts, love.
It wasn't your time, little girl,
sadder still, it wasn't
ours either.
But there must be remnant,
we will believe, sweetness.
In stifled sob,
among intangibles that visit memory,
amidst the
clamour of a city,
the call for punishment,
and even the call for
surrender to tyranny;
in a garden and a fountain
a birdbath and a
reservoir,
a heartbeat and thunder
love and its refusal,
you will
arrive
as a mountain and a silken thread
a bowtie and a curtain,
a peal
of laughter and a silent tear.
We will, we will, we will recognize you,
most beautiful of
all our children.
