Imperfect Sacrifice
I'm sorry to tell your tale
because you were human,
and if I am honest,
no human is good enough
that someone would not see
the perfectly decent reason
you "had" to be dispatched.
Even if it was part your humanity
and part their invention.
Even if you spoke untruths sprung from
the lies that murdered those around you.
Even if your anger was
altogether understandable if, and only if
they could stand where you did.
They don't and say:
You should have forgiven like a saint.
You should have pierced through
the fog and foghorn of war.
You should have written purely
of beautiful and doomed things,
never the ire of nationalism or
the pride of seeing oppressors
(or so supposed)
brought down.
They will deny it was wrong because.
Because.
Because.
The cause.
I don't believe in angels.
I've never flown a kite.
I believe in freedom and
the imperfect power of poetry
in the Celtic tradition of some of my ancestors
to lay a curse in verse that
circumvents the power structure
to create a new channel and do
almighty things. Not because poets are perfect people.
(Fuck no.)
Because we are fucked up enough to be recognized
as very human and make, therefore,
the perfect imperfect sacrifice--
we do get gone,
but the words live on.
And you saw the arrow aimed for you
and named it. And I am not
going to name it anything else.
A slaughtered goat
that purifies no gate
imperfectly made
in a world of hate.
