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“Now that I’m dead I know everything”

June 17, 2014
tags: , , ,

Praise be to the poets, believers in alms, the laying on of hands,
the healing touch of lips on skin
and hot sweats that signal the breaking of fevers

Praise be to the poets
trading in words and secrets,
treading water by your side to bring
the news,
dredging those depths for ghosts,
writing those sorrows on the body, any exposed part

Praise be to the man who carried my words in his pocket,
6,000 miles away,
bringing them back stained with blood and sweat (not his; his)
the grit of dirt, (dirt of a land under siege) and the desert

Praise be to the strangers, reaching out
(across)
through the years to take your hand
offer respite
something cool to drink

Praise be to the sheer weight of human grief
wearing you down
to your truest self.

Praise be to the raconteurs,
the troubadours,
conjurers of the Word
enumerating your kindness
and weakness
confusing one for the other

Praise be to the sleepers,
ridged fingers,
ink staining the chest.
The ones who tell you, sadly,
this will be for your pages

 

 

 

 

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