D. Harris

Rookie (June Tenth, Nineteen-Ninety-Two / Elgin, Illinois)

One Must Be So Careful - Poem by D. Harris

How long has it been
since the last time?
the spring rain doused us
in the beatitude of our failures
and… broken loves
(I wonder…
do you remember?)

When shall we again
see the sky?
it turned murder blue,
the blue of a frozen winter night,
as we walked home from the graves...
(where our ideals sleep)
the snow pelted your tear-stained eyes

The poet is dead and
as his corpse stares into my eyes
what shall it find (my grief?)

sitting on the dark side of the river,
under the old banyan tree
where the dead take their meal,
I sob into Martha's breast
I shall walk into the wind as my shadow deserts me
and the dust that stirs in my clutch shows the truth of Fear.
I shall dropp my burden at the church
and my fear of man desert me for a braver one.
I shall sit in the dust I was born into
and question the colors of god’s eyes.


It is time that the skies rise to the earth
As we sit on the frost-bitten hills
It is time that the dead sleep with their wives
we bite each other’s hangnails;
It is time that Finnegan dies
draw blood as your mouth
It is time the chalice is lost
melts in the snow;
It is time the Man is forgot
hurry up please,
It is time. it's time.

One must be so careful these days
...Poor Mrs. Equitone...
The horoscope sits in disrepair;
If you see her, tell her the horoscope has died
in my arms.
One must be so careful these days.

He thinks we are in rats’ alley,
where the dead men lost their bones.
I know we are in Rats' Alley.
where knowledge comes late.
to the dead man
it is so far gone'

Shall I count the ways I found you?
naked in the chapel
lost in the circus
dead in the market
A drowned man could not have grabbed at so little

The church stands mute as its empty halls resound with the laughter of a thousand dying saints but // the snow bites back the warmth of a love (not yet killed, nor yet born) and our hands hang limply as blood stains the marble. At our feet: The bearded father, long forgotten, shakes off our blame, claws at our purse. We push his head under the distant sea

You asked the man with the gun whether he loved the sea (and he the one that sat at the helm of our ship) while I slept in the gutter, raining guilt on the rats below
you, the foolish Girl from San Tropez

I asked you to recite the verses and, when we reached the cave, you shook your head. I wretched as the darkness spilled from your golden curls and bled onto the ground
you, the Foolish girl from San Tropez

His blind eyes darkened the cave and you asked me,
‘Shall we find my grief? ’
‘Shall we find my lie? ’
‘…shall we find? ’
Shall I answer?
We shall find our golgotha home to a man
We shall find our golgotha home to a church
We shall find our golgotha home to an idea
I shall find our hill with the tear of the Father upon it.
I shall find our hill with the corpse of the Son upon it.
I shall find our hill with the blood of the Spirit upon it.
But I shall find their blood on your hands.
But I shall find them dead in your streets.

And I should look redeemed.
but they should not believe.

'We missed you last sunday at the ball -
the lepers cried into their soup.'

'You could find a home for yourselves
where you could look redeemed.'

'What did you say?
what was that noise? '
the wind under the door
nothing and more nothing

All Dead
all dead

Requiem æternam dona eis, Domine,
Requiem æternam dona eis

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Poem Submitted: Monday, April 26, 2010

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