It is there waiting, no doubt
another trap, simple initially seeming pure
but harboring a malevolence that will
soon consume you, leave you broken,
so considering the pen as a weapon,
to lay waste to it, or for seppuku,
both thoughts will no doubt come to mind.
It has always been like this, always will,
different if you chose the digital path,
but only a difference in implement,
the struggle, the loss, the outcome
very much the same, so consistent.
Still you take up pen, stare deeply
at your adversary, swear it will not
defeat you this time, battle on valiantly,
but finally, and yet again, painfully concede
to the omnipotent abyss that today
as yesterday is the pure untouched page.
The problem is one
of disequilibrium, for we
have grown tired of it
before it has grown
tired of us.
There is no agreement
to be reached,
no chance of
a detente, no
state of truce.
We will defeat it,
we have no
choice, but until
then the virus
will be our companion.
She could barely move her head
the cancer climbed her spine
reaching upward, clutching vertebrae
reaching out, tendrils grasping
tearing fragile organs.
She would cry, but that would be
an admission of defeat,
a welcome to death.
I cried out for her,
entreated our God
that she might stand by her sons
when they uttered the ancient words,
by her daughter, adjusting
the white lace veil,
but he would not answer,
drawn into catatonia, seeing
severed limbs of children
littering the streets of Sarajevo.
She clings tenuously to life
as I cling tenuously to faith.
First appeared in Community of Poets Magazine Vol. 21,, 1999 and later in
Legal Studies Forum 30:1-2, 2006