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Sonja A. Skarstedt
Montreal by sunrise - a photo sent by Sonja A. Skarstedt
Panoply
The galaxy window cracks open:
a strand of stars
greets the sunrise
certain as a tyrant
the desert
a disheveled dustbowl
rises into view
its foreboding erases the stars
whose pandemic light
endures
splinter after splinter
a Tuareg appears out of nowhere
his sandals soft and withered
as his endurance, disturb the silt
on a hardpacked dune
the oasis where his camel slouches
wary
its tattered hide
looped over spindles of bone
the Tuareg extends his chapped hand
to a leafy branch and extracts
a small rough sphere
whose biblical promise to nourish
makes him tremble
for a single monumental
second
he cuts the fruit with the ivory-handled blade
his grandfather bestowed on him
the day he was tall enough to tug the fur
on a camel’s belly
his thrust reveals a pocket
of wet red jewels he hopes
will sustain him through
the blistering hours
of infinite grit and endless days
to come
but before he can lift
the pomegranate feast
to his dry lips
a bullet spins into his ribs
as it tears through him
his mind snaps away
to a fragrant corner of the past
it is my time
intones his mind as if
it has been preparing
for this moment all along
it is my time
the air rushes past him
silica tainted
he meets the sand with all
the force of a whisper
his Tuareg robe billows around him
commemorative as a blue flag
its majestic calm sends
shockwaves
across the pale sepia horizon
as a clockwork formation
of Uncle Sam’s finest
moves out of the oasis shadows
on first inspection the folds
of his face are more leathery
than the shell that holds
the pomegranate whose innards
are still clutched in his right hand
its lifeblood glistens
its seedy scatter spreads
and vanishes into the nearby umber silt
its uneaten fruit is already
drying in the wind as the Tuareg’s
copper hand, already fast asleep
lets go of the awareness that
it will never again trace
his granddaughter’s face
his torso resonates serenity
its feet freed from pebbly jags
and burning parches are already
pondering cool cirrus, far removed
from the pulverizing burden
of life, its tapestry of fissures
those caustic spokes of repetition
birth death battle.
The Blue People carry their brother away
bury with him the lie of no more revolutions
and other promises whose only reprieve
comes in particles of cartilage
and complacency.
Sonja A. Skarstedt
November 2003
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