But Most of All
Padma Jared Thornlyre
My daughter's transition between
Her Madeline puzzle and zonked
Unusually swift. Her mama's right
About warmed milk with honey.
Alone with the war, now, I read
Erotica, sniff cardamom, drink
Scotch, and sink my fingernails
Into my scalp, but not quite deeply
Enough to draw blood. Just close.
These sensations the sticky stuff
Of living. Driving home on 40
Up Genesee Mountain after work
Today, the road gave way to the beast
Of Bethlehem, a suicide bomber,
An American soldier scraping a talib
Off his boots, the tanks of Israel rolling
Into Ramallah. The road gives way
To rubble, to a dancer who lost his
Teeth, fleeing Manhattan's wall of ash.
Bodies thunk into the bed of my pickup.
How distinguish the faces of hate,
Whose single difference is their name
For God? Arafat becomes Sharon
Becomes Bush becomes bin Laden.
I search for Gandhi among the gullies
Of Lookout Mountain and in the trees
Of Paradise Hills and--yon--Buddha
In the eyes of Genesee's bison. I recite,
Without the usual comfort, the First
Amendment, to hedge against the burning
Crosses and lynchings that rise from the road
In front of me with the guns of Chivington
And Black Kettle's blood that just won't stop
Spilling. I wipe my mother's spit from my
Eyes. And the spit of her bronze star husband.
American sons died soldiers in his arms,
But I cannot help myself, I can't help but see
The undecorated baby boy, the little girl,
Torched for the original sin of being born
Vietnamese, can't help my doubting
That their mothers' grief was somehow
Less human than his. Americans died,
And die, in the art of killing. I pass the flag
On Genesee bridge, where it's whipped
Since last September, but I blow my daily
Kiss to the Continental Divide, my elder-
Earthen lodge of the Great Spirit (the father
I wish I knew) and White Buffalo Woman.
I wipe the spit from my eyes.
It keeps on comin' but all I want to do
Is shield my girl from those who hate,
Stem the rise of gore that bars her peace.
