Who are these men whose mothers taught to
hate, who drank the sand instead of measuring out
time’s lasting burden?
We gnash and pray and witness but
need words as strong as water, to erode
stony hearts, soften blunt edges to more merciful terrain.
(This morning I gathered with a group of women to celebrate
a birth, and we wove flower crowns and smiled,
cheered by hope and friendship. We can’t decline to live.)
In time measured in hours we’ll learn and then forget their names,
while families gather for funeral services and in hospital waiting rooms, and
another day recedes.
We’ve been through this – and yet
I decline the temptation to wing invectives – there is plenty of that, and
my own thoughts are heavy enough and spinning.
Together we will bend knees, lift up prayers, and raise fists in
a twisted blend of faith and condemnation –
how many times today, and for how many varied purposes,
was the name of God invoked?
(Tomorrow, somewhere, something beautiful will happen.)
caroline ridgway 