Chiamaka tells of women who plant seeds
of peace in tribal towns, pot-banging with spoons
to call men off their game of raid-and-rape.
A girl named Hope intercepts the hands
of crowing children trading blows
and coaxes them to shake their hands
although her own are quaking. At school
my shy daughter stuffs notes in friends’ lockers,
imploring playground harmony.
In town there are the vocal ones who yield the floor
and quiet ones now brave enough to vote
against their own friends for a just cause.
Anyone will bless those who fear no fire,
stout souls no bomb can keep away
from those who need a sip, a hand, an ear,
but can’t we also bless survivors whose hearts
and skin are plucked or peeled to give to someone else
whose family awaits some news in silent burning?
Can’t we bless the time-gnarled knuckles
of hands that knead and lead and wring and hammer
and hold and pause and praise?
Sometimes even we—
pierced with arrow-words, with brassy
cacophonies of slurs—stand in calm.
We watch. Although we fibrillate with doubt, still
we bless the one who stands before the rolling tank
and all the world’s dark eyes that gather light.
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