by Jenny McBride
Like a pillar to the moon
It beckons you to climb the sidewalk steps
And top the gentle, quiet hill
With its fairy tale vistas:
The spacious bay
And candy sailboats
Blue and dreamy around the edges
Cool as menthol, the air a draught
Of good things to come.
The silver and black poet
Elegant as he is elderly
One eye liquid with the slack of age
Trembles in the nearness of eternity’s tailwind
And clearly states
That we may eat the candy
So long as it is shared.
Wrote a soft, fat book
About all the times armies didn’t
men didn’t attack,
and blood was not spilled in rage.
She wrote of the women
Keeping the homes
adding bits of comfort
to awkward situations
and delighting in their tiny smiles.
She wrote about every moment of peace
That intervened between the gouges of war
like thin branches on a tree
with deep roots and a long life
but her book was never printed
because she found no reason
to mention her nation.