Fire spreading lies and rumors,
Milling with a water wheel
Turned by the dry river bed
And the feet of a young boy
Trying to push the demons
Back down to heavenly depths
So that his nose is no longer
Captured by sulphur smoke.
Fingers clutching crutches betwixt
In manners deemed kind by
Aged nuns with filthy habits,
But more strength in one eye from
The constant exercise of staring
At that which not be named,
Rough to the touch creating callouses
That when sanded reveal a tender heart.
Shaggy curtains hanging from trees,
Gnarled in contortion but draped
To gather good fortunes from
Divine winds that would otherwise
Sink their ships in briny depths
That pressure the chest and fingertips
To slow dance and fight as if
A ballerina and desperate soldier
Were toe to toe in quicksand.
Scores tallied at the end of halves
Divided by despots in brass rings,
Passing around watermelon and
Swallowing the seeds to bury them
In acid baths with scientists
In gloves and goggles dissecting
Human thoughts and human minds
By watching a butterfly emerge
From self-imposed exile.
Author’s Note: Just another day in the village.