Rain and Fire (for Stephen)
169>When rain and fire again leave the country in peace, the world will no longer be the world but something better." — S. Marcos
We sat, those men and me,
in a squalid pub,
where Jose told us of his struggle,
now in its third decade.
But he would not plan
a protest for next August.
"Next year at this time, who knows?
We may be back in East Timor."
He repeated his refrain,
while, at the other end of the table,
a fiery man repeated,
"people are afraid
that their donations might be used
to buy weapons."
Who wanted to tell him:
These words are our weapons.
And what we buy is the air
through which they are spoken.
Who wanted to ask him:
How will we resist like Gandhi's masses
after we are all dead?
Who noticed that, every day,
people with ethical considerations
help to build the high tower of silence
which stands on the graves of
one third of everyone.
And so the two thirds of me that
loves and sleeps,
would like to speak
for the third, dead part.
Her lover is no longer here
to kiss her wounds with his.
And from deep in her throat,
where she took him,
there comes a sound
for which there is no word
in any language.
Left to the insects and elements,
Clothed only in her rusting blood.
There is no one to observe that moment
when her body becomes a corpse.
No one to share her relief
at being liberated from her life.
The fireman offers her a hose
but no water.
You offer Jose a big mac and a beer,
but it is his hope that sustains him,
"Next year at this time, who knows?
We may be back in East Timor."
When I offer my son an ice cream cone
I pause to wonder:
Who will show these people, here,
that their freedom is melting
to singular memory?
Robbie Casey