no more sea presents

Prophet

(feast of the holy innocents)

Turn your eyes away,
the kitchen’s full of smoke.
They’ve come to take your child today:
a falsehood is my hope.

Then I turned to see an older man, he
had his leather purse in hand, I
wondered—if I’d ran away,
my son could live to that old age. . . .
It burns the breast I fed him with,
scrapes the iron ’cross my fist as
rifles pound on every door;
screams will rattle through the floor.

Herod speaks, axes fall,
crimson evenings; save us all.

Take this night away,
the darkness won’t abate.
And the wails of Rachel say
“how long before I break?”

And the bodies have no graves,
no ashes for the dead.
The blood and tears left in the wake,
we’re choking on the end.

O and who can resurrect this mess?
I can never get him back, if
only I had barred the door. . . .
Tears, convulsions, screaming. . . .

And the prophet speaks on my behalf,
wandering in the desert when I
lay my burden in the land;
turn the earth up with my hands. I
turn the earth up with my hands,
turn the earth up with my hands, I
turn the earth up with my hands,
turn the earth up with my hands.