Maureen Micus Crisick
the ghetto stars pinned to cloth
could lift from history
like angels soaring to the sky.
The air which holds cinders
of Buddist robes, burned hair
of ones who doused themselves, set fire,
suppose the plume of smoke
becomes clear and white.
What did I say?
I said: what if Sarejavo is not burning
and no city is burning
and in the market square
no human head is impaled upon a stick
or mute limbs strewn on streets,
and no fingers exist without hands.
Suppose grenades side with sunlight.
Bullets in boxes become
chocolate wrapped in gold foil,
and in Guatemala, the men come back
from their disappearance,
and in the morning, wake in their own beds
because love is the white moon
and light moves in us like blood.
there will be holes left in clothes
but not from ripped stars,
only from wear,
to let the darkness out.
please note: art by Marc Chagall