Margaret Almon
The parable of the mustard seed -- the smallest
of all seeds becomes a tree, and the birds
of the air come and make nests in the branches.
Matthew 13:32
I am writing from memory.
I did not save the newspaper
with its photo of a woman walking,
floating in the woods, fern shadows,
coolness that starts a shiver
in the neck. I read the borders,
the story. She was hanging
from the tree. She twisted her flowered
shawl into a noose. The story told
me this and that she had a head of dark hair,
and that maybe she was separated
from her husband by Serbian soldiers,
and that maybe she was raped
by Serbian soldiers.
Her skirt seems a curtain, a reverence,
an abomination of protection from belt buckles,
zippers, the gravity of hard flesh.
Can men resist their own bodies?
I want to know what makes them afraid.
Last month, three American soldiers
abducted and raped a Japanese girl.
What is a soldier? What is a woman?
Who is clean? Who is unclean?
We never want to live
with the Muslims again.
Where do the women belong?
I never understood gravity.
How did we know it was there?
The teacher chalked dashed lines
on the board, finishing with the sharp
triangular tip pointing into the trough
of erasers and chalk dust,
to show force holding us
to the ground. Now, I see gravity
is revealed in need; it will be there like God.
Daphne was a girl fleeing
a god, and she prayed to the river
to turn her into a laurel tree.
I hope her arms are branches,
her defiance of gravity.
I confess I saw a woman walking
among the trees. I want to understand
my iniquity. Jesus Christ was
nailed to a tree by Roman soldiers.
Jesus asked if we will deny him,
and I say yes, yes, yes.
I am writing from memory,
because I want to carry this woman.
I write a letter to the President. I say
I am disturbed by the war in Bosnia.
I can't do anything else.
The four gospel writers describe
Joseph of Arimathea: a rich man, a respected
member of council, a good and righteous man,
also a disciple, waiting for the kingdom
of God, a secret disciple, afraid of the Jews.
But the true secret; he was afraid of himself.
After the crucifixion he asked Pilate for the body,
wrapped it in clean linen, laid it in his own tomb.
We are given what we ask for,
the body of our own waiting.
Copyright (c) 1997 by Margaret Almon