Ken Cathers
malice
violence is a language
learned from birth
that casual slap
on the head
an arm bent back
it is the first phrase
remembered
a rock thrown
in the dark
a complex syllable
a curse hissed
how easy the rhythms
come to us, the
smug cadence of lies
how helpless we are
against it
hand slammed
in a car door
the pain naked
beyond words
catch that quick glint
of malice
in your eyes
lazarus returns
four days is not
a long time
to be dead
but the man
you bring back
is lost, confused
a poor act
for the big stage.
he refuses to mingle
stumbles into dance
has started to smell.
he wanders off
and keeps going.
becomes an imperfect miracle
a minstrel
a voice in the desert
is seen in the distance
a tatter of rags
befriended by dogs.
there are no new lines
in the story, no roads
left to follow
only the shadow world
the stray Angel of sleep
that beckons
he is empty inside
returns to the cave
rolls back the stone
remembers again
what it is to die
