Crumbs From the King’s Table
Once I moved myself aside
there was a crystalline quality to the air
and memories of music heard
birds who sung
leaves who had fallen, decomposed, damp and wanting
merged and grown anew
in the seed cells of the lighted soil underfoot.
There was a sloshing of water into itself
wave into sweet wave,
a dive off the ship of dreams
into blueback ether
roiling like a conjured hurricane.
The world: burning and true like their hearts
Into the breach! I heard myself cry.
In it cars filled highways
commerce choked streets
wariness lined leisure
in a blink
a meeting of the eye in its mirror,
then, everything after:
a great shaking of the land
smoke collecting in its atmosphere
trapped behind the glass of a bauble,
the jewel in the eye of the goddess,
her queendom fallen
and palace long abandoned
to vine and ruin.
She, too, gone --
grown finally impatient with their intolerance
of softness and season
the chessboard divisions of her vastness
numbered days, all.
On Sunday the rains came. On Monday they drowned. Beneath the sea she left only one stone, marked with her message:
No longer shall hate fill breath.
No longer shall wounds bleed.
No longer shall bones ache.
No longer shall I accept crumbs from the king’s table.
The new age dawns if they hear it or do not. Let their eyes see.
Truth: be told, and embolden the brave.