to those who will inherit the earth

february 5, 2009

 
I stand before you,
mother-naked in my long dark hair.
The water flows gently over my bare toes.
For a moment's truce, we are equals,
mute and motionless,
and then you are gone.

Blessed are the meek, they say,
for they shall inherit the earth.
I wonder at your meekness,
silent, hiding from the drama of the spotlight,
living on crumbs we do not toss you,
yet century on century, you endure.

What are my horrors to yours?
From the shadows, you watch my white form,
infant-soft, grown monstrous,
lay out sweet poison for your daughters' mouths,
reduce your sturdy, agile sons
to silent, twitching agony.

We wreak a systematic genocide,
the searchlights chasing you
even into your dark havens,
persecuting you with stubborn self-righteousness,
vowing death to your children, and your children's children
unto the last generation.

You will be poor in spirit,
raising your children in terror,
feeding their hungry jaws with glue and tainted soap.
Long years will you hide, mourning,
teaching those who remain to scrape survival,
feeding their souls with distant hope.

With strange faith, you calm their anger,
telling them there is no need for vengeance.

Blessed are the meek, elder brother.
Some pale and nuclear sunset, you will know.
Your tormentors will turn their poisons inward,
torturing matter till it roars in anguish,
melting the infant flesh from those
pale, twisted inner carapaces.

Blessed will be the silence,
and blessed are those who survive,
for they shall inherit the earth.

And cursed are you now,
for it is our time to destroy you,
and you must await your turn.


Jillian Waldman, 2010