Rain and Fire (for Stephen)

Rain and Fire (for Stephen)

169>When rain and fire again leave the country in peace, the world will no longer be the world but something better." — S. Marcos

We sat, those men and me,

in a squalid pub,

where Jose told us of his struggle,

now in its third decade.

But he would not plan

a protest for next August.

"Next year at this time, who knows?

We may be back in East Timor."

He repeated his refrain,

while, at the other end of the table,

a fiery man repeated,

"people are afraid

that their donations might be used

to buy weapons."

Who wanted to tell him:

These words are our weapons.

And what we buy is the air

through which they are spoken.

Who wanted to ask him:

How will we resist like Gandhi's masses

after we are all dead?

Who noticed that, every day,

people with ethical considerations

help to build the high tower of silence

which stands on the graves of

one third of everyone.


And so the two thirds of me that

loves and sleeps,

would like to speak

for the third, dead part.

Her lover is no longer here

to kiss her wounds with his.

And from deep in her throat,

where she took him,

there comes a sound

for which there is no word

in any language.

Left to the insects and elements,

Clothed only in her rusting blood.

There is no one to observe that moment

when her body becomes a corpse.

No one to share her relief

at being liberated from her life.


The fireman offers her a hose

but no water.

You offer Jose a big mac and a beer,

but it is his hope that sustains him,

"Next year at this time, who knows?

We may be back in East Timor."

When I offer my son an ice cream cone

I pause to wonder:

Who will show these people, here,

that their freedom is melting

to singular memory?

Robbie Casey

From GLW issue 259