When you can’t write a poem.
When a poem can’t fix it.
When a flick of the lighter
and a pull of the cigar
and a lashing out at loved ones
can’t fix it
When sporadic sobs of faith
ripping from bellies
like plagues of moths
can’t fix it
When a prayer skips
“Don’t let it be true, Jesus”
And another prayer skips
“Don’t let it be true, Jesus”
And the prayers skip
And voices crack
like whips across Christ’s back
and questions linger
on the napes of our necks
and lifting our heads to the sky
does not loosen their hooks
And you don’t ask them
because you know the silence
resounds like his last breath
Because you know he should not have taken his last breath
And a rage storms
through the blood of kinship
And a rage storms
below the clouds of scriptures
And a question clasps hold of your eyelids
And a gaze falters at the casket
And a sweeping of the crowd jettisons a spray of questions
like bullets
like bullets
like bullets
that wail like they just lost their child
like bullets
like bullets
like bullets
that wail as if their prayers were answered incorrectly
like bullets
like bullets
burdened by too many unanswered questions
like bullets
like bullets
Who is responsible for these tears?Tears dammed by so many quesions
Tears desperate to escape the dam to prevent the flood
And a poem can’t fix it
And a prayer didn’t make it not so
And questions still haven’t been answered
And we have heard that weeping endures for a night,
But why is it that we have been forced into mourning?
Rahk's Water 