Fiat justitia ruat caelum.
(Let justice be done though the heavens fall.)
The bodies are no longer there. They’ve dug them up
and carried them off, exhumed from shallow graves.
They’ve laid them out and counted, set torsos and limbs
aright, sewed shut the seams. The sea cannot be their grave.
Who made the pile of fresh dirt at the woods’ edge?
They gored and slit the very air. Oh most depraved.
Not even the womb was sacred. Not kin, not friend, not
bystander. Not hair, not skin struck by gun barrel or stave.
What are they worth, who are no longer here? Warped leaves
in the canopy condemn the unresolved: they won’t forgive.
In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.
OTHER POSTS IN THE SERIES
- Listening to Piazzolla’s Tango Etudes
- Eating Dried Fish With Our Hands
- Dear nostalgia,
- What We Look For
- Without Translation
- Heart Weighted With Cares
- Tableaux Vivants
- Listening to Chopin’s Prelude in D-flat Major, Op. 28, No. 15
- Dear solitude,
- Landscape, with Notes of Red
- Blue Stone Blues
- Landscape, with a Glimpse of the Soul as it Leaves the Body
- How I Came to Writing
- When does the hunger abate;
- Dear errant winds at dusk,
- Dear scarlet-flushed, hydraulic,
- Monday’s News
- Landscape, with Traces of Prior Events
- On the Nature of Things
- Spell Against Grey
- Landscape, with Castoffs on the Sidewalk
- Sleepless Ghazal
- Last Call
- Delivery Confirmation
- Landscape, with Early Frost and a Dream Interior
- Campus Elegy
- Ghazal: Chimerae
- Maguindanao Ghazal
- Insurgent Song
- Paper Ghazal
- Ghazal of the Transcendental
- Hot Lyric
- On the sense of danger or foreboding, the prickling
- Postcard from the Labyrinth
- Letter to One Seeking Flight
- Unbelievable Ends
- In the chapel of perpetual adoration,
- Night Rain
- Conversation that Ends with a Dream of Accounting
- Lyric on the Edge of Winter
- Paper Cut #2
- And once again,
- Prayer Among the Stones
- Call and Response
- Dark Prayer
- Song of Snow
- Santa Milagrita
- Song without Strings
- Morning Song