Missionary

Missionary

She had sought to bring good tidings

and salvation.

Seeing the photographs in magazines at Christmas,

the pleas to save the precious little ones

from starvation

with a lamb, or rabbits,

or a tidy sack of seeds—

a child herself, she took these things to heart

and prayed

and wondered at the partiality of God.

She had longed to minister to the ones

from whom surely God had turned away his face.

She would comfort all the children

and bring them food and faith

but when, at last, she was among them

battered, hungry, broken

the withered, silent babies

dying in their mother’s arms,

their empty eyes consumed her courage

and burned into her cheery,

robust health.

Some spirit within her faltered,

her fingers trembled

and in her heart

she was afraid.

For all her prayers she could do nothing,

no solace offer, no relief.

She might simply brush the flies from babies’ faces—

pray to comprehend one day

the immensity of suffering in the world of men

and wonder at her favour in the eyes of God.

Nero

 

Nero

I shall call him Nero,

you may call him what you will.

Nero, he’s the one fiddled while Rome burned?

This one idles a computer

while it rains.

And floods.

I work, my arms ache

my back—

but mostly my heart and hands

wringing with heaviness.

Over and over

heavy water on the floor

heavy tears

choking.

The sky is dark

and pouring.

Darker my heart

and it rains,

and it floods.

Nero reads a book,

sipping wine.

I mop, sweeping in long strokes.

My hands are soft,

the work is hard.

I wring towels

into buckets of dark bubbles,

my muddied dreams.

Over and over

for hours.

Hours.

Nero comments wryly

“Better get on the roof and see where it’s coming in.”

Yes.

Please.

But Nero will have better things to do tomorrow.

And the next time it rains

as the last time—

and every time and time again

down the years.

When it rains

it floods.

Over and over

the towels sop and sop

I wring and wring,

and my heart

is hardened against him.

wings

 

Wings

Slowly we ascend the dome.

Not the far reaches of heaven’s gate do we pass

nor the blue sky

but the beautifully painted figures of Correggio

or Michelangelo.

Swimming in air, arms reach and press

reach and press

growing used to

resistance and

lift,

the soft flutter--

our newfound limbs

bird hollow

our sweet breath

            electric with flight

           

and then, glancing down

a dark hole in the earth

the mouth of the towers

broken teeth, ragged shell;

we leave

a burnt offering

            circling upward

           

                         incense

and a slow shuffle of wings.

Joan Stone