So here we go again. The grit of darkened seasons past between the eyes, across the brow. The purple cloths of grief, tall cloistered candles, numbered days. Six more weeks of wintered trudging through a wilderness bereft of alleluias. All this to show that everything we know— and are—is dust and will return in just the way it came and always has come. Yet, here and there, bent brave above the snow the clustered Lenten rose bleeds color from pale sunlight, gently points itself toward a cross, an emptied cave, that bright unending summer glimpsed in childhood, and forever after longed for past the terminus of measured time.
He stalks the dark before dawn, hackles up, a surly chanticleer with a raised blade, black tail feathers flicking back and forth.
A fit clenches him whole, strains his red-combed head into one shrill remonstrance that scythes clean through night’s manifold silence. An ear bleeds in the courtyard.
Morning now rent, the sun hangs low by a wire, a naked bulb bearing down on this day the full weight of tendered debt: I never knew him.
The rooster glints green; his round eyes dart; he scratches and stabs the dust for seed at the foot of a tree.
Study war no more
Mar 18, 2011
Michael Izbicki grew up in a nondenominational church in California. A National Merit Scholarship finalist, he chose to go to the U.S. Naval Academy out of a sense of duty to his country during a time of war. At the naval academy he began to doubt whether the career to which he had committed himself could be squared with the tenets of just war doctrine. He got in trouble when he responded no to this exam question: "If given the order, would you launch a missile carrying a nuclear warhead?" After a four-year legal battle, the navy discharged him as a conscientious objector. Izbicki may have to reimburse the service for part or all of his education (New York Times, February 22).