17 of 30, Poem-A-Day, "They Can Be Taught to Read, and to Pray"
They Can Be Taught to Read, and to Pray
In the country of Israel,
spindly poplar trees shrub next to pear groves,
olive gardens flourish in the so-called holy land
where the storefront signs boast
that they offer fresh Coca-Cola, though not in English,
in the summers of open market machine gun fire.
In the country of Palestinian,
biblical, living fruits find their way
towards the sun of Moses through burning sands,
eucalyptus trees seem to sigh in cold April nights
where the pins of hand grenades
jingle a domestic little song like house keys.
In the country of Hamas, crazy orange bushes
the size of baby Volkswagens dot the hills
that jut up against the bottom lip of the Sun;
improvised explosive devices
are the dented and discarded apples
lining the sides of the back roads here.
In the country of Islam, eyeballs
are splashed with acid for going to school;
while in the beautiful, subdued gardens
of ivy, apricot and bullet casing,
songs are sung to the kingdom of heaven,
fig trees sprawl over green plains that seem to go forever,
tilting their bushy heads to the sunset.
In the country of terrorism, airliners roll,
cavort in frigid city rivers like baby whales,
Walmarts rise from the soil of suburbia
in whole big bunches; simpleton mothers
pride themselves on bringing to bear multiple octoplets,
blogging umbilical progress from delivery rooms
noisy with childbirth and Windham Hill Ipod playlists,
marijuana plants share living space with tomatoes
in the half-assed bedroom gardens of Texas undergrads.
In the country of my kitchen,
the indigenous people who are me
stand around in only their boxers at 1:15 in the morning,
unashamed of my body and peering into cupboards
to see if there is any peanut butter that they can have,
while packets of blue Kool-Aid lie scattered on the counter
like packets of blue Kool-Aid scattered on a counter;
ice cold milk is sometimes poured right from the jug into my mouth,
the dribblings of white liquid splashing onto my bare chest in the moonlight.
And yet, the people who populate
these other, weird countries
somehow get for themselves
more column space on CNN than I ever do,
and I want to ask God why.
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April 22, 2009 by Rich Boucher.