A man who works for me here in the Philippines is the proud father of his fourth child; the first from the only woman he'd married. They had their baby at home, a four foot high hovel without electricity, with the help of a mid-wife they couldn't afford. . . The baby, an 8 pound boy, his mother, less than five feet tall with the dark skin of a girl who's no stranger to the sun. . . I've never been to their house; our worker too embarrassed for me to see it. Others in the past have refused to show me where they live as well. They feel inferior, unequal to to those who have more.
Was Christ a rich man wearing a white porcelain mask, clothed in satin robes, chauffeured in a a shiny black stretch limo, with a crowd of worshippers in tow carrying lit candles? Was Buddha always a stone statue who never ate the food laid at his feet in cold, dark temples, during a war we had no business being in, when those dressed in ochre, having shaved heads, walked between good and evil, at the dragon's beckoning, showering the rice paddies with omens that are and are not? Did Allah come out of a cave to bring the world to its knees, having bridged the chasm between the "and" of are and are not followed by minions of demons carrying unlit candles, or . . . did he, instead, create a bridge between good and evil, tossing the "and" of are and are not into the chasm below, the sky raining jasmine petals?
I am, you are . . . always changing . . . am and are, skipping stones across the stillness of a lake made of dreams, ancestors dreamt when the world was a dream passed on to the are and are not dancing between stars.
i am, you
are the chasm we
when the trees no
robert d. wilson