A state of cowardice,
one has to wonder
whatever are they afraid?
I suppose the answer is legion
Due to their god’s fear of demons.
There is a mother and father
who saw dark figures in advance of the sun
coming with bitter hate in their eyes
put there by some far western pogrom.
So our couple woke their daughter, their son
and raced across the hills and lowlands
to a farther place, then to somewhere still
more distant holding a promise of quiet.
This is terrifying:
a raggedy man & a stern, sad wife
each holding the hand and dragging
the body of a drowned boy
while behind them trails a girl’s deep silence.
They come and they come and they come,
standing wide-eyed, palms out, aghast.
“These are not our brothers, sisters, fathers, or mothers.
Why love them more or just as our own?
They paw at us, claw at us, so how could they ever be trusted?
They’ll only want more and more of what is mine,
what is ours,” you demand, “Is that fair?”
Fear as an acrid salt,
a pang, a sting, a burn,
rather than a tasteless distant thing
that you can never turn around to see.
Fear as children,
a burden you’ve never mastered;
fear of being more than you are
for fear of being better than you are.
Fear as a fact; you a sad, little man
cowering in the corner of a room
at the deepest heart of your mansion.
Your walls bend back over you, topple,
and crush you under its weight.
The thousand hands you recoiled from
pick away the rubble
so you can breath again,
feel light, and face a kind eye
only wanting to pull you to safety; be safe with you.