Chiaroscuro

The whirring purr of night
Falls thick across my chest
Pausing to lick with scratchy
Tongue the hot, salty trail from
Eye to ear.

He understands even less than
I this hard wind blowing
Cold from the East. So used have
We become to warm and loving
Breezes.

There is no love tonight.

This night belongs not to
Valentine but to Sebastian.

To twisted torsos and bloody
Arrows. To blackened eyes
Staring blindly, begging God
To release a shredded
Paper heart.

Not So Long

there is no Judah
Ben-Hur to take them
up,
no blood of Christ
in which to bathe them.
shades and shadows
crumble who once were
flesh, rotted
beyond time.
the reign of King
Kamehameha, the
fifth of his name,
sent them to the
island,
sent them to the
garden,
not Gethsemane,  
but Eden,
some would say;
i would say,
would have said
then.
a girl whose only
dream
(beyond being blue and blonde and
bony)
was to
           die
a Martyr;
refusing to refute,
wrapped in banana leaves,
left to cure and smoke,
painless (had to be)
blissful (must be)
after a short life,
such a short life
 
caring for the
un
     wanted
un
     washed
un
     wept
wounds
of skin and sore.
a female Father Damien
they would say,
would have said,
now
had we not for
gotten dreams,
had we not for
saken Martyrs,
had we not
traded it
all
for avocados and
papayas,
for antibiotics and
Las Vegas;
had we not
all
exchanged
          Eden
for a National
Park
©s rogers 3 february 2012