There’s not a corner, in all the earth,
without its shallow grave —
mourned, unmoored, each
tucked under a shroud of grass. I know
in all the earth there’s not a plot of ground
where someone is not quietly gathering
an arsenal, mixing nitrates,
inventing a more economical manner
of death — nor one chamber
of the heart that hasn’t been stolen into
and darkened… But the first winds of spring
rise till the dogwood
extends herself in her white-tiered gown;
the stones hold their witness inside
while the finches and jays spill over
the edges of a single hour.
On TV last night, a man was speaking:
“I was running, carrying my son on my shoulders
when the soldiers shot him… why
was I running? It was my home…”
The man’s face was entirely covered
with his hands as if what he had seen
was so clear to him and so terrible
he was ashamed of surviving,
ashamed of being a man… And still
there are flowers like trumpets, flowers like stars —
two girls sail their bright-tailed kite over the schoolyard
while the lilacs snow down —
honey peach, and honey pear, each gift
ravishes, and restores in us
what will also be broken again
and again, without reconciliation. Lord,
do not save us
from this world.
Save us in it.
This piece originally appeared in the Spring 2001 issue of Sarah Lawrence.