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buddha

 

old soul

newborn tiny

been here before

 

an old one

alert eyes neck

mouth an O

calm as

the moon inside

 

the teenager mother

glitter on her cheeks and eyelids

sword and heart tattoo

 

we both see it

know

awe

I've lived here almost half my life (so far) 

 

Germantown, estranged step-daughter

of Philadelphia, wakes up about 2 p.m.,

shuffles around on her scuffed up fuzzy

slippers, peers into the fridge for some

left over ribs or Chinese food, eats it cold

out of the box, dipping up the sauce with

Wonderbread; she decides yesterday's

t-shirt is still clean enough, dabs under

her arms with a little dishsoap, rinses

her mouth with cherry gatorade, runs

her hands over yesterday's frizzing braids.

She pushes the button on the answering

machine on her way to the hamper, pulls

on a pair of pedal pushers and steps into

hightop shined athletic shoes, heads out

to the avenue, hot sweat buzzing news,

ready to walk the walk of a proud boy

called up to the bar in court.

To limbo, December 7, 2001:

 

I conceived you on Pearl Harbor Day or

Feast of the Immaculate Conception;

that seemed suitable, a pure soul or war.

Snow was piled outside your father's windows,

dark on his rice paper, traffic silenced.

Holy. Still. Calm. You'd be twenty-nine now,

the age I first gave birth. I've no defense.

Know I was sick. Know I was alone. I

bled old blood. Sat for hours with my back

against the bathroom door. Waiting. For you

to die. I believed you died. I loved you.

All winter waiting for him to come back.

I was proud and strong and I did not cry.

 

 

To R. F., formerly resident

 

at the Laconia State School: I do

not know if you can read so I thought to

send you a picture to say where I went.

I tried to find a post card of a barn

with a tin roof and torn tarpaper sides

but they all looked too red and new to hide

in. Cows perhaps, but veal just newly born

would have been truer to what I felt. 'Deer

tied to the hood of a truck.' This one will

do. To let you know I am alive. Blood

stops. It dries. I got up. I never could

go back to see you. Did you think you'd killed

me? Rape. I was nine. You, my friend. No. Dear.

 

 

The World of Murdered Children

For John Sweet

 

The poet lives

in the world of murdered children.

He knows someone

has to bear witness for them.

 

He shows us their broken

hands, makes us hear

the sound of their death.

 

I want to tell him

about a place of light and healing.

I can't.

 

I would travel there myself

but I live in the city

and all roads lead

to a place of pain.

Here is a description:

a little girl is found

in a locked trunk

at the city dump

 

three to four years old

a dozen thick braids

six missing teeth

eight old rib fractures

old fractures of both femurs and humeri

probable old burns of chest

estimated time of decomposition 3-6 months

 

Here is an artist's impression of the child

and a photograph of the trunk.

I spent a month looking for a match

in X-ray files at the Children's Hospital.

That was twenty years ago.

Today, Katya takes her brother's hands

steps over her mother's body,

her father, bleeding from his own gun

shot, on the floor.

 

Together they walk out

to the police cars, red lights

circling, step over

blood, into the endless night.

 

--Kelley Jean White

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