The Resurrection
Lord, I do not believe your written promises,
but the rain under tires,
the quiet tearing of cloth along a seam,
the running of a bath.

Every morning, my son stops at the same place on the stairs,
gazes at us through the railing
till we call him down.
He likes to know, to know in his muscles, the ache to be held
before he’s held.

On my way to work
I am waved at by three girls in blackwatch plaid.
It does not matter who I am,
they make me part of their each day.

Why was I not the one crushed behind the steering wheel
and unrecognizable,
why was it the small brisk man from the bookstore
whose car skidded into the tree.

Did he not too trust in long afternoon shadows across a bed,
in your light showers,
the joy of pulling off rain-soaked clothes,
the good nakedness afterward,
the old Adam pride of walking naked through empty rooms,
the promise of clean, dry underwear
and black tea?

This winter night, I wake and raise myself,
listen to the cold rain,
the wind flinging threats against the house,
and have the sleepy pleasure of knowing
there is a darkness outside
that, for now, no one here has to face.
Lies
My son and I kiss the same woman goodbye.
We are meeting thousands in the dark Capital.
This is the first lie:
that I wish to bring peace to anyone
beside those with me now in the lamp’s small territory.

Soon we’ll be marching down a wide street ending in flags
and marble — and dawn, huge and official
turning the white stone glistening.
We shade our eyes, march into the dazzle
as if light were another kind of government.

This is the second lie:
that the men inside the building hate the light,
have been hurt so deeply they’d have the world hurt.
With them are my father, my brother,
gentle, considerate men,

and though I love them, I rise with others against them.
This is the third lie:
that we have weapons they don’t: a love for children,
a concern for the planet.
My boy and I welcome the sun on the backs of our necks,

we need it there
as we walk into the darkness between buildings.
The police wait for us.
Soon they’ll raise their arms and bring down
the shadows we expect.

This is the fourth lie:
that these men like to wield the darkness.
The fifth lie: that they have chosen to.
Mother and wife, the person we love most in the world,
has sent instructions:

keep away from the violence.
This is the sixth lie: that we can.
The seventh: that we wish to.
We move closer to the damage, lurk in its shade
as if hearing the screams

seeing the blood, we might understand.
The eighth lie is that we do.
We’d thought by walking in great sunlit masses
before those who began this war
we might end it. We lift the sun in our hands

as if to show the men in small groups gathering at the windows
there is another government.
The ninth lie is that they do not know this,
are not grateful like us for free passage on the earth,
the sun’s generosity.

The tenth lie is the hardest.
That we are in no danger, from these men,
that you are in no danger, my son,
from the faithful, the earnest, from friend, brother,
or father.

These poems are included in Christopher Bursk’s Place of Residence, just published by Sparrow Press, one of the oldest independent publishers of poetry in the U.S. The Sparrow Poverty Pamphlets, of which this is No. 44, are $2.00 each. (Sparrow Press, 103 Waldron Street, West Lafayette, Indiana 47906).

— Ed.