Arts+Culture

Arts+Culture

We Are the Eighth Day, © Melanie Weidner

Poetry

Hunger

Open thy mouth wide, and I will fill it.
Psalm 81:10 (KJV)

Don’t be afraid of your hunger.
I gave it for your fullness,
The cravings, the pinched gullet,
the corrosive wants, all
have come to serve you.
Don’t be afraid of the pablum,
the drivel in your diet, or the sharp
cactus burrs when you swallow.
Don’t be afraid even if you don’t
know you are hungry.

Poetry

For they shall inherit the earth

The child who labored under the AK-47,
who bore its weight like a claw on his naked shoulder

and memorized the equation of trigger + blood = food,
cried out to Ludana and escaped to the darkening savannah.

He awoke on a carpet of acacia shadows. Above him,
the coral dawn shook out its feathers

and raptors began to ripple through the sky.
He spilled his heart out like water to the Lord.

And ants came to him, came by the thousands,
encircling his neck like a chain of glittering onyx.







Film

Summer hours

A well-established French cinematic tradition is to spin out a story that seems to be about very little—until you get a peek beneath the surface and can see it is about a dizzying number of things. Then the themes and symbols rain down, forcing you to watch and listen carefully lest you miss one of the clues that helps explain, perhaps even solve, the tale.
Poetry

Now! Order your prepaid cremation!

I’ve seen the Kathmandu corpses,
garlanded with marigolds, burned
to a crisp, holy smoke sifting
across the river, censing the air for the tourists.
In Annapurna’s narrow lap this valley,
chock full of bones, is too cramped
for burials. Instead, the dead are loaded onto
burn piles stacked with logs from the foothills,
now naked and eroding, pillaged for ceremony,
death gathering to itself more death
up the slow gradient of necessity.
Mourners chant. Mortality teaches
our ears, eyes, noses as the little boats of
skeletal ash and charcoal are launched,
freed from the funeral ghats,
to drift downstream.

Urged now to weigh the manner of
my final dispersal, I’m not
averse to incineration. But I confess
this foolish comfort: to lie beside my husband
in our grave—a double bed we chose together—
the full, aged remnant of the body he loved,
knowing heaven can pull together
from earth or urn, from bones or ashes,
whatever is needed for what’s next.

Poetry

Dandelions

The bag I drag is solid as earth, clods
I couldn’t shake off roots
reeking of rocks and blackness,
the kind of dirt they’ll use to bury us.
                                                                 As in Iraq,
where the body count climbed so fast
mortuaries posted Help Wanted beside the highway.

And let me mention my own complicity with darkness,
buying a jade jacket sewn by a hungry child
in Singapore. And the way
I say darkness, a skin tone
not my own.
                         Even the calibrations of a poem,
tricky, the justice of lines, evil wrestling
with good in the miniature
Madison Square Garden of a page.

As I weed, I listen to the sweet cacophony
of neighbor kids on scooters, the argument of work,
its ache in my arms.

                                      When the lawn bag rips,
dandelions tumble out, eager to spread their seed.
You know how gullible evil is, sure
of itself, always believing the worst.
Are dandelions weeds or flowers?
Maybe I’ll tear the bag, send seeds flying,
encourage a suspicious universe to bloom.