The Brave

A beaded rattle burns
in rivers across his chest,
fluid lines that stretch and roll
towards the colour of the sky,
while the desperate drilling sound
of ancient oil wealth,
brings the open close of
children's eyes,
to the brink of
a thick black slickness,
his own eyes drowsy
from the mist of old rag fumes,
bottled dreams that run dry
and yet never reach his lips,
then, suddenly,
he sees his reflection
in the notes of shattered glass,
and stands tall on top of a mountain,
for four days and four nights
while the four winds howl his name,
and, returning a dead man,
no longer weighed down by an indefinite sentence,
an unbearable lightness worn behind the ear,
like an eagle feather amulet,
he knows he must love again
before this circle can be closed,
and he will love again,
in the playground of his children,
in the cliff side of his memory,
and their laughter will be his medicine,
will heal the scar that cuts deep
across his chest,
and crawls towards his eyes, and
the eyes of his children,
and her eyes of star-filled night
that he must live to see shine again.
But this love will not be enough,
he knows this on the mountain,
and so, led by a red hot hand, he walks
into a dark and empty room,
just him and the camera and
the scar-faced stranger,
and the blood of his fathers before him,
the blood than runs in rivers
down destitute walls,
the blood his children
will drink and spit,
in copper-tinged recrimination,
the same blood that she will cry
in endless, flowing tears,
and gives himself,
his final gift
that they might never understand,
in that place where God is missing,
in that no great spirit room,
I wonder, is there space to honour those
that die screaming,
so we may live?