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In The Beginning We Spoke of Original Love

” the children of the earth will be naked armament…”

The children are marching.
They have sprouted from the ground
mud glistening on their cheeks
their wings still wet
feathers plastered to their thighs

Chris is shaken by an unseen hand
as he spits and sputters sounds
His mouth a bloody Babel
there is no meaning in his utterance
there is no peace in his passion
for this graceful man,
there is no grace in his leaving.

The children are marching.
They are stepping with the bold
stride of the anointed and sure.
Palms splayed outward, the wind
whistles in their wounds.

Ray lies still as a ghost
and his sister and lover hover
over his silent body urging him
to go. “Go to the Light.”
He has already started walking.

The children are marching.
Their voices sing a high sweet
song somewhat akin to keening.
As if they could keen in such bright air.
As if they could howl in sunlight.

Robert lies blinded
by a blizzard in his eyes
He is smothered
by an army in his chest.
He will fight like a hero,
his provisions will run out.

And the children are marching.
The sun is burning
their faces
turning brown like a common bean
They go barefoot
Feet flattening over the land of man
over the hand of God.

Carla is slight as a whisper
Light as a prayer
She calls for her daughters
They cannot hear
Her old dreams have sent them
running in the tall grass
Rolling in their lovers’ arms.

And the children are marching
No one wonders where they are going.
Or where they have been.
They are clamoring for the guilty
They are calling for the saved
Their absence will be
a grateful departure.

In the beginning, we spoke of original love;
But now, we prepare for the new millennium.

© 1998 Brenda Moossy

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