By Bruce Bond
If you are going there by foot, prepare
to get wet. You are not you anymore.
You are a girl standing in a pool
of clouds as they catch fire in the distance.
There are laws of heaven and those of place
and those who see the sky in the water,
angels in ashes that are the delta’s now.
They say if you sweep the trash from your house
after dark, you sweep away your luck.
If you are going by foot, bring a stick,
a third leg, and honor the great disorder,
the great broom of waterfowl and songbirds.
Prepare to voodoo your way, best you can,
knowing there is a little water in things
you take for granted, a little charity
and squalor for the smallest forms of life.
Voodoo was always mostly charity.
People forget. If you shake a tablecloth
outside at night, someone in your family
dies. There are laws we make thinking
it was us who made them. We are not us.
We are a floodplain by the Mississippi
that once poured slaves upriver to the fields.
We are a hurricane in the making.
We could use a magus who knows something
about suffering, who knows a delta’s needs.
We understand if you want a widow
to stay single, cut up her husband’s shoes.
He is not himself anyway and walks
barefoot across a landscape that has no north.
Only a ghost tree here and there, a frog,
a cricket, a bird. And if the fates are kind,
a girl with a stick, who is more at home,
being homeless, than you will ever be.
Source: Poetry (July 2013)
More Poems about Social Commentaries
In Flanders Fields
In Flanders fields the poppies blow
Between the crosses, row on row,
That mark our place; and in the sky
The larks, still bravely singing, fly
Scarce heard amid the guns below.
We are the Dead. Short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
The Glories of Our Blood and State
The glories of our blood and state
Are shadows, not substantial things;
There is no armour against Fate;
Death lays his icy hand on kings:
Sceptre and Crown
Must tumble down,
And in the dust be equal...