They are our grandmothers and
great-grandmothers.  Women's bones--
calcium deficient and 
dry.  Women's bones chanting old
pray'rs from hymnals past.  Casting
blessings and curses upon
the waters of their children's
tears.  With their tongueless mouths they
transform us into asses,
mules, horses, or birds.  The names
inscribed upon Solomon's
ring are weak magic on their
lipless faces.  Their children have
mocked them.  They will be avenged.
Who will play the lyre?
None but David--man of God--
His songs are lost to us.  They
will no longer abate our
seething schizophrenia.
"Oh where is David's Harp?  Oh
where is the music that will
put flesh on our bones?" chant the
women.  "Where is the music
that will make our dry hearts beat
to these drums again?  Where?  Where?  Where?"

I hear in the distance a
roaring like thunder, grumbling.

© 2002 by daniel ml. All rights reserved.