Poems, Prose, Photos & the Art of Being Human
IF BIRD You would be my loon calling long past light, my mourning dove, my sweetest finch flashing sun from black as night. If my bird you were I’d feed you nectar from my palm and plant thick trees for you to rest and nest until I could transform my arms and hands to feathered limbs— our hearts remade as song.
Thank you to the editors of The Tishman Review for first publishing this poem.
COMMUNION
Dividing an elementary class into
boys on one side
girls on the other
invites each to imagine the other group has
cooties! cooties! cooties!
and leaves each vulnerable to those who thrive on power
yet united, we eliminate disease, produce
thriving meccas of cultural exchange,
launch ourselves through the universe….
If you think you’re invulnerable to ads and rhetoric,
think about a lemon—
thrust your teeth through thick
yellow skin to release zest’s
zinging scent and swallow
tart
puckering
juice.
That saliva now beading your gums is stimulated from the reptilian
brain targeted by an arsenal of ads and six-second sound bites that
riddle information till deception sounds like truth, our sanctity
plundered by those who weave their children in the woof of power
while snipping out poor to be fodder for war.
Girls-boys, red-blue, hick-elite, white-colored, gay-straight…
I can keep going since division perpetuates itself and
blinds us to our need to be touched and to touch
for we are not spiders, autonomous from birth, but must be suckled
once the thin film of mucus is wiped from our mouths;
if we didn’t thrive on touch our exterior would be hardened shell
rather than this overlay of neural sensors telling us when to swat,
run, rest, embrace
the Pleiades in every cell,
the bell, the smile, the knife—
yet the nourished thrive amid those with hunger that
sinks skin between bones as the body
digests its own flesh to survive—
this inequity perpetuated through our mad divisions—
yet madness is tricky. We think of it as
moon howling
running naked through streets
invisible companions
but true madness skulks where plans are laid
to destroy this planet many times over
as if this could be done more than once
as if this is the best use of our lives
madness in the reverent joy of orchestrating Armageddon
as if some are connected
and others not
madness in numbing ourselves to suffering
in ways that cause more suffering
but before squaring off into us and them
remember glass houses
and heal thyself
for unraveling the madness of this world begins with me.
It begins with you.
Yet how do we wrap around the odd ones, the violent ones,
the ones who’d sooner slit a throat than say hello?
I know only that we start with kindness and cherishing
the children we create for they are our future, inheritors,
providers, while we are holy catalysts for communion.
If we choose to eliminate hunger, rein in our mad greed for power,
cherish this blue planet’s miraculous life, what force could shatter
our bond for each life is no more than kidney, cell, atom,
of the same body coalesced from stars and seas—
dust to sky to ocean to algae to fish to bird to human,
we are one being
the Pleiades in every cell,
the bell, the smile, the knife—
why not live as if we chose this sacred life?
Thank you to the editors of The Tishman Review for first publishing this poem.
Elizabeth Oakley Weaver 