N a p
a l
m H e
a l t
h S p
a : R
e p o
r t 2
0 0 8
VIVIAN DEMUTH
Virgin of the Barricades
––
Oh, 21st century Virgin of the Barricades, wearing black silk dress
and burning rubber tires,
I glimpsed you eyes behind black goggles glowing on a video screen
on an expensive
Now, I wander the rough streets of
Have the ants sequestered you beneath the broken cobblestones and battered
feet of shaken dreamers?
Perhaps, you are nursing the wounds of murdered teachers
or singing to their crying children while mending your gas mask?
Perhaps, you are busy praying for the bruised innocents lying
in dark prisons or have fled to
to end your celibacy?
Oh Madre, far from the patrolling police, the Oaxaquenas are waking
dreaming of you, their eyes contemplating ‘la ruta de evacuacion’,
while secretly sniffing the silent air waves for the scent of burning
tires, and wondering if the Native gods have gotten lost betting on soccer.
Dear Virgin, protector of big-hearted Mexican strikers, your armoured
figure which hovers like the stars above
and now the world watches too.
As the church bells clamour, I will not forget you, even though I finally saw you
in a chic store emblazoned on a green shirt that I did not think
anyone should have to pay for.
Addressing the Names
Under a moonless night
the dirty head of a woman--
her body buried in sand
waits for the deadly sentence
while she moans to the stars:
“My child, my child.”
In a dust devil of wind,
a white shrouded woman--
a camera around her neck,
dances before the crying woman
snapping photographs.
Neither notices the army of protesters
nor the tremors of politicians
that rupture the murderous ground.
Later, TV rooms broadcast a woman
walking in circles celebrating:
“My child, my child, I’m free,
but many others have died.”
It is impossible to know whether
the woman who has been photographed
is the same woman now free.
There are galaxies of names
crying out like comets
falling into black holes.
Only a few manage to emerge
in fresh clothes
traveling on northern lights
dressed and free.
Black
Hole
I watch the alpine night
alive with stars
who collapse like us
in a warped galaxy,
inner and outer pressures
unable to hold
our shining shapes
and stabilities.
Explosive energies
blast sublime tribes
dying into black holes
as we cross borders
into a hellish heat.
Orion watches our destruction
among specks of dust
in the dark aerial desert,
while our cosmic citizenship burns
in the big fucking bang
of another war.
Alone on a mountain
I shiver under the wings
of Pegasus as new stars
are born.
A Holdover
-for Eliot
Deep down in the roots,
an ember has been held
by burnt brush piles
of winter explorations
for oil’s carbon energy.
Deep inside,
the spark remains.
It glows like an eyeball
until over time
summer’s heat and
charged winds
ignite through the roots,
sparks flare in the air
in the blindness of night.
I awake at dawn in your arms
to the summer’s largest fire,
clouds of aromatic smoke
emanate from
inside.