In memory of the Charlie Hebdo murders, 1/7/15
Today bullets sing the praises of flesh.
How soft it feels, how fragile the bones
beneath, how red and copious the blood.
Someone barks at the sky, and the moon
appears, swathed in an ocean of clouds.
Offended, he fires off a thousand rounds
and the moon bleeds and disappears.
All night, pens draw their own form of
blood. In the morning it is calm and silent
and cold. Later, snow begins to fall and bare
oaks scratch quietly at the gray-white sky.
Somewhere the rage grows again, heated
ball pulsing at its swelling core. Someone
nails the only face of god to a dying tree
face without mercy, a human face frozen
in adamantine certainty. A crow screeches
and the echo bounces back across the snow,
falling to earth among trees and fields and tears.