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
jump into
when the trees no
longer whisper
robert d. wilson
©2009
the glint in
your eyes looking
for the man
to give you our baby
in a hayless manger
there baby, a
boy born in a puddle
candle light
you think
i don't know your
thoughts . . .
herons sinking
into thick silt
inside the
afterbirth, a
money tree
your words . . .
a poorly made
paper crane
unable to see
its way through lies
money tree . . .
rotting roots can't stop
dawn's breasts
the sun's risen!
bathe us too, in the same
magic that bore
you a basket of
fruit after christmas!
even an
afterbirth can be
used again
the blood
from your new born,
fodder for
another woman's dreams . . .
racing against stars!
dawn coolness . . .
your breath circles
stone breasts
the secrets
of your womb sleep too
in stone beds . . .
longing for clouds
pushed by warm air
farm girl . . .
the warm sun softens
your heart
madness lurks
in the questions you
can't answer . . .
bubbles popping up
in stagnant water
only walls
won't milk me of my
last winter
eye shadow
and a permanent
will paint you
into the canvas
you thought you weren't
why does spring
beckon when i don't
text you?
birth brother,
we too fight closets . . .
wrestle with
lies in the guise of
paper dragons
be you, be
the breathe that takes away
our winter
i am, you
are the chasm we
jump into
when the trees no
longer whisper
here, winter
is a candle, your
spirit's flame
robert d. wilson
©2009
