Stykkishólmur

The empty streets cup the light
–a day suspended.
The houses in rows shine
brighter than the sea. In her room
a young girl lines up her pens.
She draws a map.
It is not possible
to be lost here.

At the edge of the town
a lighthouse muses
over the weather. I find myself
in the kitchen preparing
a bowl of pudding for dinner:
to contain aloneness with grace.

In His Name

After Paul Celan

I am losing words as hope-
lessness fills my mouth.
Decomposing breath, sound
not cleansed.
Angered faith
in my throat.
Coarse cries sputter
out; I could not speak:
fifty-seven deaths and more.
There is nothing human
remaining here. Nothing.
Not Ar-Rahmān.
Not As-Salām.
Not Al-Muhaymin.

(Dec. 01, 2009)