Old World

Let us now stamp our feet
and with our tears make a circle
in which we’ll mourn the places
where names were lost to memory—

Every garden that bloomed
with sago palm, every patch
of chayote; every ridge tilled
and buttressed or mossy

with stone. The pair of funeral
shops next door to each other,
men playing jueteng on benches
outside. The corner store and its

madonna, nursing her baby
at the breast, handing you
your sack of bread and change
through window grilles. Who lived

here, whose blood fed the roots
of lilies and deciduous trees?
Try to remember: this is where
all the rivers used to live.


In response to Via Negativa: Ceremony.

One Reply to “Old World”

  1. More the pieces more the wonder
    all fit in Maelstrom
    push the wheelbarrow of manure across the courtyard. Jesus,
    To the place where newness is
    those tendrils thrive groomed with slime
    coated with mold they procreate.
    What is called this place of newness, Father?
    The Garden.

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