I came to the desert with a pocket full of seeds
To live in the house of my father’s best dreams
Promised to me before I was born
Taken away because of my sins
I came with a map painted on ancient hide
To find the city of gold stripped of its wealth
Its life-giving springs poisoned or dry
My father’s house burned to the ground
The first night, I awoke with a knife at my throat
My grandfather’s bones held for ransom
The gravestones scattered and used to pave roads
By an unlettered cousin thirsty for blood
He came in the night to kill me and steal my inheritance
A grave stands now where my brother lies buried
But my dog of a cousin ran, licking his wounds
And now I must mourn as I sharpen my sword
And yet I stay
And build
And plant my seeds
And live in my father’s dream
Living in orchards where my cousin knew only to take from the land
Until it had no more left to give
Making a desert that mirrored his soul
I speak to my father in prayers,
Telling him the desert now blooms,
The wheat is now ripe
But I may not harvest
My cousin has come
He lives in the house my grandfather built
The house where my father was born
He claims to be the owner
Yet my father’s mark is still upon the door
My grandfather bought a house
Forbidden to me now
Counting my money
Wiping his sword
Worshipping a god who treasures death
Tell me, dear cousin
How many times may a house be bought?
How many deaths can be forgotten?
Tell me, my cousin
How came you upon your inheritance?
Whose blood lies spilled upon the floor?
Now other strangers have come
New to the land
But with my people’s blood on their hands
They appease my cousin hoping to trade oil for Jewish blood
Selling swords and crying for peace
I still remember how they burned my father
When he could not fight back
I came with my seeds to a desert
Fleeing the fire
And now I am labeled the oppressor
In a stranger’s court ruled by gold
And the thief wears a suit and tie
A smell of oil follows him wherever he goes
You don’t like my poem?
Have I made history into a nursery rhyme?
Is your truth too complex to be understood by a man of simple faith?
Did you expect me to dig my own grave and lie down to die
Yet again
Pardon me for being uncultured
And recalling past sins
They have brought their justice
And I must break from burying my dead
Stand silent, accused of murder
But if they speak the truth
Why am I the one burying my dead?
My dead brother lies forgotten
My murdered father lies in an unmarked grave
The dead cannot ask for justice
And the killer claims my inheritance in this new style of court
The land lay empty and neglected
Yet you stake your claim from the beginning of time
So tell me, my cousin
Where are your trees?
I came
I built
I made the desert bloom from the wells you poisoned
So tell me, my cousin
Why don’t you go to feast in your brother’s courtyard?
Is that fear I see in your eyes, fear of your brother
I cry for justice
As I bury my dead
You cry for peace
As you wipe my blood from your blade
And your words are accepted
In the courts ruled by gold
After all
Peace sounds so much nicer than justice
So your words must be true
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The Master of Return and the Eleventh Light
(Non-Fiction) The Return of the Red Heifers
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