by Kenneth Godoy
Most holy mother,
blessed of Father. Swelling
in your bosom dwells the son of God.
I looked today, down the scope
of rivers, where the leaves are flung, dead
and orange, burning, broken at the stem.
I looked into the sky, and saw the leaves
falling, black-shaped, round and bursting
fire where they fell,
and who could tell, how many men and women
killed by all this time now. Lost.
The leaves are bombs or arrows, spears or knives
we are the earth, pierced and cold. Driven through
by rivers. Sea gulls eat our body. Dear holy mother
promise me, the man with in your womb,
promise me that He will sinless be. Live among us
earth to earth, and just as we take pain, soak blood
just as we are broken, weeping silence,
promise me, he will be like us. Burning on the spike
hung beneath the tree.
Photo by Kenneth Godoy