The Linnet's Wings The Sorrow - Page 99

1918-2018 dying must be felt, associated, even if it stinks. Blood freezes in hot days of dying, is icicle inside movement of trickery less than glacier’s, where a man crawls to his maker up his own veins, is touched, feels the firebrand burn in the cold. Where are the shade trees, cool drinks? Once I froze in the confessional against the fire. He was a Spick, they said, washed his skin too much, wanted to sandpaper it white, be us, be another man. But we wagered ourselves to get him out of a minefield live as breathing, comrade shot down in the clay in the rain in the time of bright eyes rolling with thunder’s fear. Was it him we carried, or the stone of his monument…? Tons he was of responsibility, one of us despite the Spick name, man being borne to die. God is everywhere, the catechism says, my son says, now, years later. It was once a divinity we carried on the poles, with his balls gone pistonless, no more a god to his woman. His image rolled red on the canvas, burned through the handles of the litter as secret as electricity; Spick shooting himself into us, Godhead shooting signs up shafts of wood. Lugging God on sticks and canvas is frightening. We felt this. Jesus! We screamed, have You let go of this god? Do You fill him up making him burn our hands? He wanders now for times, rolling himself together, womanless, childless, a journey in dark trees, among leaves, in jungles, to get near You. God seeking God at the intercept of shrapnel, the tearing down and lifting up by our hands, God in the cement of death. Oh, gunmen, it’s the dying not the killing you must speak of. This day is theirs, not ours, belongs to the gods of the dead, of the Spick we carried to his dying and all his brothers, none of them here among us. Drink, gunmen, one to the Spick and grave’s companions, jungle flights they are in to match their god with God. And think, gunmen, who among us have the longest journey among leaves, in darkness, through the spiders of trees, now. --- 99