Slaughter of the Holy Innocents

Massacre of the Innocents by Alexey Pismenny

A poem of grief for

Charlotte

Daniel

Olivia

Josephine

Ana

Dylan

Madeleine

Catherine

Chase

Jesse

James

Grace

Emilie

Jack

Noah

Caroline

Jessica

Avielle

Benjamin

Allison

 

King Herod was a bad man. And Herod had his henchmen.

Henchmen do the bad deeds powerful men don’t want to actually do themselves.

Herod sent them to kill all the children in Bethlehem, where Jesus had been born.

Herod was afraid of Jesus, even though he was just a child.

A child can be powerful, even threatening, to some grown-ups.

So Herod had them all killed.

His henchmen didn’t use guns. There were no guns then.

But they may have used knives, slicing the children in pieces or stabbing them.

Their parents must have had to watch.

I imagine some of them killed themselves afterwards.

But probably most didn’t, especially if they had older children.

They had to keep on living.

There is a day in December, right between Christmas and New Year’s Eve.

It’s a day called Holy Innocents Day and some church people remember it.

But most people ignore the day. We don't even know the children's names.

We don't even know how many were killed.

Probably fifteen, maybe twenty, like in Newtown.

Bethlehem was a small town. Still, twenty is a lot of children to kill.

Herod had his henchmen. Here, in this world, we have guns.

And you are the Holy Innocents slaughtered by them.

Not a Happy Poem About More than a Hurricane

Boone County Thunderstorm by Kyle Spradley

Waiting for the Storm

Instead of immortality, the gods gave us human affection.

                                                                          --Eugene Mirabelli

We are all waiting for the storm and there’s always a storm.
There’s always the quiet that comes before the storm and the quiet
that comes after, disaster
averted or limply borne.
We do not bear disaster bravely, even if acts of bravery
show our mettle; still we are limp before circumstance,
powerless as downed wires sheared through.
We are always waiting for the storm.
It bruits in the distance, foreboding nimbus
shadowing our hours, sheltering fears,
sapping our strength to power its own.

And we wait. Our births, deaths,
--separate storms. But there are always others
with their births, deaths and intricate
anguishes filtering through decades—
just a few decades--of mortal terror time and again.
We wait. We give aid.
And just as greedily take,
seeking shelter in the lean-to of human affection,
the human heart not meant to last a hundred years,
but strong enough to break and mend, break and mend,
over and over, an organ that grieves, receives, relieves,
and cleaves until it can beat no more,
silenced, once and for all.

We are all waiting for the storm and there is always a storm.
The calm in the living room—gold light from the mica shade,
the clay bowl’s milky glaze—collides with the forecast
of the front headed toward us. It’s off in the distance
till the hours bear it near, hapless and dangerous,
these clouds full of woe. What do they know
of mercy or blessings? That’s left to us, all we can do
is bring our dying bodies close and closer,
shoulder-to-shoulder--what's left?--and weather the storm.