Exquisite poety, poignant, pure, raw by David Morse a Connecticut resident.
Come Back to me, you said –from his chapbook “Honor the Stones” Dogwood Press
Back to pale sky, snow striping forest like a goat’s jawbone in ashes, back to Connecticut at the tag end of December. Bare trees stitch sky and earth together like thorns through cold lips of remembrance. I want to telephone you, tell you I’m home safe – as if you’d somehow waited for me, though I told you not to wait, said goodbye. Come back to me, you said.
Now I am back and you are gone I want to dial your number under this bone cold sky and fill your ears with stories of Sudan, warm you with red clay the color of rust and share mangos from western Nile; unfold for your fingertips the magic carpet of Nairobi scams. People-packed matatus careen pell-mell in and out of traffic, weaving blue smoke choreographed by guys who slap the roof and yell to lure not-so-sure customers into hip-hop blare, slide the door open and slide the door closed in a ballet to keep the fourteen seats filled.
All this: the refugee who fled helicopter spotlight, saw his eight brothers killed still looks for mother and sister, camp surrounded by coils of concertina wire, Maasai with milk white bulls dying of thirst, unfamiliar birdsong, the Rift Valley’s skewed shadows stretching like wings into evening: I want to lay it all at your feet, now that I am back, but you are gone far away your hands folded into the safety of dust.
“Honor the Stones”, from David’s chapbook. Available from Dogwood Press.
Waiting for Spring
I take the first pew in this rough church, seat myself on flat stones and look up at fractured bedrock bulging skyward, vertical black stripe painted by groundwater curved into a bow, picture the arrow flying across the valley and try not to think about Darfur, or the woman at the embassy of Sudan whose job is to delay requests for visas, or flies dabbling in a dead baby’s wound, women’s eyes dulled by rape and loss of everything; helicopter gunships, devils on horseback. This is Connecticut, green land waiting for spring to untie the black knot of winter. Soon will come choirs of spring peepers, skunk cabbage. Last night on a hill I inhaled the soft sweet fragrance of maple sap funneling moonlit steam into the shape of Africa.