CONFESSION ZERO (The Weaver's Song)

In this land of twenty million years and Ishango Bone; the root of man in his original life, in his foremost loss, from the barren drums of home to the brimming terms of literacy, Egypt, Carthage, the Nubian Kingdom, the Great Zimbabwe, Sahel, Hutu and Tutsi now both so scorched in grief!

Malawi, Kenya and of Livingston’s Victoria Falls, Lake Victoria; the Nile, its soggy trough beseech!

O! Original land, you shall not go! Stay your spirit’s dancing in splendid hope's refrain!

O! Children come! Stand upon on the back of eternity and pray for rain!

Might I tell you about a dream I had? It won’t take long, my friend.
Please, sit. Take off your coat. Have some coffee. Shall I tell you of my dream?
Very well… Last night I dreamt I met an Iraqi man, his teenage daughter and nine year old son. It was almost six in the evening, in my dream. Six at night, like it is now. The light was almost taken from the sky. ...Yes. Like it is now. Yes. They wearily stepped onto the porch. I went to the door and I opened the screen and it screeched terribly, startling the boy. After a moment of awkwardness I said,

Dear weary travelers you may enter this house You may eat of my food and drink of my water. Please. For in the end we are these things, or at least I believe we become them. Why not share, right? ...Come, my friends, sit. Rest your tired legs, there’ll always be plenty of time for walking.

They entered and sat near one another on the couch. I served them water. This seemed to calm their nerves a bit. Mine too. What? Oh. No. I wasn’t nervous for who they were, I was nervous and worried they’d find me a poor host. I take pride in my manners. Yes. We all sat there drinking the water and listening to the grandfather clock. Much like we hear it tick tock now, only then, in my dream, it seemed amplified.

...I broke the ice,

Wouldn’t it be best if we got to know one another a little better? Family? Friends? Likes? Dislikes? The consequences of fate?

What? Oh. No. That is not how I talk normally. This is a dream. It was a dream. It caused me to jerk up in bed in a cold sweat. Nightmare? No. I- Well- No. It was a pleasant dream with a frightening end. I suppose you could call it a nightmare, technically.
Anyway, as I asked them my questions I noticed that the little girl began to cry. The father looked at her sternly. He didn’t want me to see her crying I suppose? But, the little boy didn’t move, he just looked down at his feet. As a matter of fact he never moved. He never even spoke.

What? Of course he had a tongue! Why on earth would you?-
He just seemed frightened is all. Not of me or the clock, but of the past. It was as if he had been in a terrible accident or witnessed something horrible at such a tender young age. I asked the father if they were okay and was there anything I could do and do you know what he said to me?

How did you know that?
How on earth could you possibly know what this man said in my dream?

How could you possibly know he asked me to do such a thing?

No. His son and daughter were alive in my dream.
No. There was no wife. Just the three.

Yes. She did.
How can you possibly know these things?
I never said how she died.
I never even mentioned her name.

She was your wife?

No. Oh God. I’m confused.
June 2003. Yes.
Wait! Where are your children?
If you are her husband you will have a teenage daughter and a nine year old son? Where are they?

How is that possible?

You just told me that your wife died in the war...

They lay upon the streets choking on their own. Mounds of people desolate in their being.

Wait.
And breathe in again.
Kicked in the gut; split like lumber. This is a home. Animals have a home.

Wait.
And breathe in again.
Boxes propped up in the rain. Empty cans rot. Feeding is done. Could they have hunger? Is it ours that they’re hungry?

Wait.
And breathe in again.
Displaced assassination. Soul tainted by remark. Hold. The starving soul echoes back and lives in our queried gaze. Is this anyone’s “life”?

Wait.
And breathe in again.
Shoes leaking dirt on new snow. Fingers hold paper canopy encasing country’s dishonor. This is not a life, is it? I think it is best to live.

Wait.
And breathe in again.
Perhaps the hand will move. Will hope spring? Will death take notice of this? Will the good in man change them? Will our naked shame bow softly? Will we course this toward nurturing? Will the hope of man succumb to hunger? Will the pride of man not rip itself from within? Might it begin? Has it now?

Wait.
And breathe in again.
Men, women, and children; living ghosts, alleyways of mankind infested with distrust, cursing the self bending through our streets of our cities and towns to our own expense. We needn’t turn away in shame, or fear of this; fingernails caked in dirt, soiled clothes and hair. Run from it and it rests with you. Mock it and it returns within you. Spit upon it and you stir death. Attempt to remedy; hope, love, salvation, and you turn its hastening back.

Wait.
And breathe in again.
We know these stooped forms are among us. We know the hand extended is not in greed. We know we needn’t fear its power, unless we are soulless and more in need of seeking. Hope shall soar. Death will perceive. The good of man shall foster change. These bones and faces are found in every man. These hopes and despair frequent the soul’s café, drinking in the fullness of grace.

Wait.
And breathe in again.
We must believe in the true nature. We must hope for the caressing of our beings, beckoning man’s better self, his courage, that it might rise up, swell within to champion, take hold our slipped fingers in desire of betterment, prayers of expectant selfless endeavors, freedom to ring not hollow, but thunderous in the flattered ears of politicians! Booming through the streets of home, piercing and raucous about this world, man summoning to man on these cold streets! As we meander nearer the darkness, nearer the end, many will have gleaned over before we know our echo's come `round again. Man cannot wait, not upon the streets of new snow, breathe in again.

The tightening stroke.
Patrolling the wounded ground.
The shattered glass.
Instability in central parts.
Eerily forsaken streets of Baghdad.

Awkward moment.

Start again.
Green Zone in desert sun.
Firearms lifeless seize.
Why am I here?
Why war?
Why couldn’t it be peace?

Awkward moment.

Start again.
Infection of brutality.
First we murdered their children,
now they carry death
wrapped in shrapnel.

Awkward moment.

Start again.
Perhaps I will hug my mother.
Will yearning yearn?
Will hope be hopeful?
Will carnage turn inward?
Will the power of the sun arise?
Will the sway of good prevail?
Will the soul of man avoid its own demise?

Awkward moment.

Start again.
Tightening eyes.
Moving toward upon wounded ground.
A distant explosion.
It would be easy to turn and run.
But why am I so damned afraid?
Because they are Iraqi?
Brown skin and eyes?
I will stay and greet them.
Will they wave and smile at me?
Will evil have my face?