Sticking their tongues out in the rubble, The pen of Jefferson moves to contain whatĬannot be contained, collapsed buildings,įamily photographs lying on broken bodies Writing a letter, plotting to buy Louisiana, Zombies the mute saints, pious and solemn, Pierced with jagged things, rocks and glass, Twisting the roots of our hearts, nowhere Hedge funds, Blackberrys, joys we hold onto Ledgers for the wealth of banks, investments, Of farmers ranking goats with black children, Some alien presence driving the real thing, The tiny plan of earth growing from the Earth, The wet mess of your heart suddenly slapping Ripping the cloth of the breath, suspendingĮvery wish you had in that single moment, The seam of the spirit tears in earthquakes, In the rubric of the crucifix planted on shores Near cement walls filled with sand on the bottomĬomplex chance of a soul torn from Ile Ife, The children under sheets, stiff and undone Would be pearl white, a bed of ice after snow If the sky were to crack, the floor of heaven “Lord, make me an instrument of thy peace. His poem “Port-au-Prince” is not “news analysis ” it’s a stab at fitting disaster news, now two months old, into a context between heart and history. Afaa Michael Weaver leads off a week of poets’ reflections on the catastrophe in Haiti.
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