Elizabeth Balise
Sparrows Falling
This poem comes from a dream.
Sun—as February ordains it
roseate—early
twisted inordinate—in gray blanket
Snow has sifted to the pockets, wrinkles
the cuff of his woolen cap
An old hand rubs stubbled cheek
Snow flickers and falls again
in a dazzle
As he groans and stirs—
sparrows sing
As he struggles to sit—
sparrows sing
As he exhales into the chill
he considers the lilies of the field
Their luminous curling petals rise
steam or hope?
or just white smoke
wandering from the tiny fire
He sits a while to listen
to sparrows bickering in the bushes
then bursting into song
They have their audience
Across in a court of broken glass
and toppled stones
a room— still partially intact
Kindling gathered
Marta melts snow for tea
peeling potatoes in her lap
Stops to blow on hands
Marta’s heart—decent, visceral
like her hair—bun, kerchief
like her words—few in the failing
like the wounds of her smile
And Mikhail—harnessed
to the sounds of service
Orderly rhythm in ruin
hush hush hush
of a broom stroking cobbles
Mikhail—his hands wrapped in rags
Not a warrior
but restorer of places to live
Stops, removes his cap
squinting sunlight into the channels of his face
Then turns toward unsteady shuffling behind him
“You shouldn’t.”
Tears interrupt
reaching for the broom
“You shouldn’t do this for me.”
“No, no, Holy Father. It is little thing—
a little thing I do.”
Good Friday, Hart Island~ 2020
The wind groans with reluctance
Sends April snow in squalls—
A tossed and careless shawl
worn long and tired with this Day
No glimpse of sun
A dirge of snow surrenders on the grass
Winter making one last pass
among us
gray with grief
Due east of Rat Island
Alone
Appropriate in name
Appropriate to this~ the day
Surrounded only
by the jealous surf
with hateful waves
Consumed by the howls of “crucify!”
He is not ours!
They are not ours!
Send them all away!
They belong to the island
to the ground
from which they came
Not for us to cry and claim
Their abandonment
Wooden boxes fill the
trench—
A Babi Yar
of our own doing
so it seems
and yet again...
Golgotha
In the bitterness
there is
an island—
Hart—I think they call it
Both a prison and a grave
of NYC
A place “despised and rejected
rejected of men
and acquainted with grief” ~Isaiah
