by Peter Gallaher
Left foot, right foot. Right foot, left foot.
This is some old nursery rhyme. Isn’t it?
I pass the schools, now empty, the homes
Not full even when the lights are low,
Churches locked against the newest Vandals.
They haven’t horses. They don’t know Africa.
No Belisarius will stop them this time.
Their Emperor wears a golden chain
Around his neck, has tattooed lips and
Roars obscenities at passing automobiles
(This is some ritual of state, I think.)
While I walk along the empty street in
A state of orange alert for Grace.
Now when kneeling I shall just kneel
And know no other thing to do.
For I have torn pages from the holy books
Scattered them before the doors of unbelievers.
I bowed when they burnt them
And covered me with the ashes;
Fit punishment for well meant sacrilege
By one who knew no other thing to do.
Every attempt is an exercise in silent
Futility covered with smiles and gestures.
Does she see me beneath the trees
Near the corner at a busy intersection;
A beautiful face whose eyes beckon
In the whiteness of my grief for all of this?
And, does she say, “What have you to fear?”
Yes, and She says, “My little one.”
