Strata

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This morning I woke and said
I can’t believe the monster is dead
I hadn’t remembered the anniversary
of my father’s death two days
and twenty one years ago
Passing is a better word
as in passing the baton
like all men with batons
whose guns and fists
form imprints on the cells
of those in their path
on their road to glory
Their imprint forever
shaping lives
residing in blood
the eyes and ears
and the soil and soul
of home and homefullness
Monster not the best word
resting as it does
on impotence and rage
Let us speak from above
from our own tongues
disappear them from the pages of His story
while we write ourstory and fly,
as the song says, like little sparrows