I would fill my mind with thoughts that will not rend. (O heart, I do not dare go empty-hearted).--Rupert Brooke
Yes, the Christmas lights hang ahead of the hearts.
The boots for war are sweating.
I know.
C'est la guerre. They said so then-They say so, now.
I don't know
What bandages to fold, what wounds to wrap.
I know, c'est la guerre. They said so then--they say so
Now. Burned breaths. Dry autumn, beneath.
There is an ancient tradition of filling the cracked bowl with
Gold--to honor what has broken. What is known. We have
Broken again. Blood-moon. Hunter moon. Ecliptic
Hour--like a hummingbird hung over the shoes of war
Standing still. Shared prayer, hear me.
I fear me.
Lights hung ahead of shrouds, c'est la guerre, but not
Yet--not now. Don't hear me.
Is Paris back to normal? No, darlings, not at all.
Not anything near normal, not at all. That, we know.
And no bomb of ours or of theirs and no gun will heal it.
Blood moon, hunter moon, filling our cracks with gold.
Will you fill our cracked bowl?
Fill it with a liquid for our vein of burned love.
Electronic edition created by Megan Kipper for New Letters Digital Archive, Culminating Experience, Spring 2021