Image for the poem Modes of Being ( after Denise Levertov )

Modes of Being ( after Denise Levertov )

March wipes            
its muddy boots.    
Spring advances:    
basilicas of tulip, forget me nots, blue—   
the color of black birds.    
The park bench facing east of an empty sun—    
tangerine skirt, blouse akimbo    
amid purple limbs.    
  Near the Northern Triangle    
  a migrant woman is raped    
  by an indigenous guide    
  as her child sleeps.
The park yawns    
its saffron teeth emerge;    
a nocturnal atmosphere awakens—       
its stridulatory organs rub in unison    
against ultrasonic mammals    
sustained in flight, their elongated fingers    
stretching membranes opalescent.    
What a joy to witness silhouettes
become their own darkness!    
  Near the Southern border    
  a father's back is bleeding    
  prideless, broken—    
  pleading for his missing son.
Feet muddy    
we transpire from shadows    
directional depth of night. . .    
  Perhaps turning east    
knowing fire will alight    
ignite our kindling of bones    
complacent in knowledge;    
  what do we do, beyond    
  knowing means, beyond    
  scaffolded heights    
  of barbed fences and walls.    
Holly bushes puncture our veins    
draw blood in remembrance    
an alternative to wishes—     
if we had enough    
to grant relief of suffering.    
Cherry trees bloom pink;    
"lumps of snow are melting    
in tulip-cups".    
  Near the southern border, in    
  kennels made in America,    
  children are molested—    
  their tiny mouths gagged    
  while outside, their parents beg.    
  It is happening today, now    
  March two-thousand nineteen    
  no different than January,    
  nineteen seventy-four, near    
  Saigon—when I was innocent    
  in jr high school.
What Liberty, beyond scales    
of blindness, doth tip her flame    
into the balance of humanity    
  to reach regardless    
  the heart-wing of lung    
  to breathe, scream    
  through lack of sight    
  where deaf see more    
  than ever a cry heard by us;    
  our tongues transform—    
  become deadly weapons    
  of defense, shedding    
  not one ounce of their blood—    
  nor a drop of our own.                    
Written by Ahavati
Published | Edited 4th Mar 2019
Author's Note
Image by the ever-talented artist, JohnnyBlaze. Non-entry the Classic Corner: "A Door in the Hive" competition:
Image by the ever-talented artist, JohnnyBlaze. Non-entry the Classic Corner: "A Door in the Hive" competition:
Inspiration: "Modes of Being":
"April in Ohio":
All writing remains the property of the author. Don't use it for any purpose without their permission.
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