The Glory
I make the
mistake of showing my hand,
exposing the
hole in my palm that bleeds
and never
heals but bleeds light, that dawn
white
shining from the deep inside
of morning
glories. You look at one blue
morning
glory blossom, and it is equal
to the
greatest thing. Each body
on the
killing fields, whether burned
or cut to
pieces, had that bright soul,
and so I
bend to look into the glory
in one
blossom and know it stands
for the
beauty that cannot be destroyed,
that is
larger than the vast plains
of murdered
bodies because I can see its
light too in
the luminous sky over the fields
of the dead,
the dim light in the bare bulb
in every
torture chamber, or in the light
of every
mind confused with secret fears –
Here, touch
the white light in the center
of my blue
palm; think of a circle of sun
shining on a
lake; or, burning on a sea of grief,
light with
the candle of our insane consolation
love’s
rebellion, tempered by desperation.
– The Blue Elephant, August 2013
