Ποιειν Και Πραττειν - create and do

Sonja A. Skarstedt

Montreal by sunrise - a photo sent by Sonja A. Skarstedt

 

 

Panoply

 

 

The galaxy window cracks open:

a strand of stars

greets the sunrise

certain as a tyrant

the desert

a disheveled dustbowl

rises into view

its foreboding erases the stars

whose pandemic light

endures

splinter after splinter

 

a Tuareg appears out of nowhere

his sandals soft and withered

as his endurance, disturb the silt

on a hardpacked dune

 

the oasis where his camel slouches

wary

its tattered hide

looped over spindles of bone

 

the Tuareg extends his chapped hand

to a leafy branch and extracts

a small rough sphere

whose biblical promise to nourish

makes him tremble

for a single monumental

second

 

he cuts the fruit with the ivory-handled blade

his grandfather bestowed on him

the day he was tall enough to tug the fur

on a camel’s belly

his thrust reveals a pocket

of wet red jewels he hopes

will sustain him through

the blistering hours

of infinite grit and endless days

to come

but before he can lift

the pomegranate feast

to his dry lips

a bullet spins into his ribs

as it tears through him

his mind snaps away

to a fragrant corner of the past

it is my time

intones his mind as if

it has been preparing

for this moment all along

it is my time

the air rushes past him

silica tainted

 

he meets the sand with all

the force of a whisper

his Tuareg robe billows around him

commemorative as a blue flag

its majestic calm sends

shockwaves

across the pale sepia horizon

as a clockwork formation

of Uncle Sam’s finest

moves out of the oasis shadows

 

on first inspection the folds

of his face are more leathery

than the shell that holds

the pomegranate whose innards

are still clutched in his right hand

its lifeblood glistens

its seedy scatter spreads

and vanishes into the nearby umber silt

 

its uneaten fruit is already

drying in the wind as the Tuareg’s

copper hand, already fast asleep

lets go of the awareness that

it will never again trace

his granddaughter’s face

his torso resonates serenity

its feet freed from pebbly jags

and burning parches are already

pondering cool cirrus, far removed

from the pulverizing burden

of life, its tapestry of fissures

those caustic spokes of repetition

birth death battle.

The Blue People carry their brother away

bury with him the lie of no more revolutions

and other promises whose only reprieve

comes in particles of cartilage

and complacency.

 

Sonja A. Skarstedt

November 2003

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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