Jacob's Ladder Is a Tree That Grows Out of the Earth

Jacob's Ladder is a Tree that Grows out of the Earth

December 2003
For John Byrd, who was with me at the time

This all happened
somehow like this
exactly
and I will write love poems until I die.

Always childhood gun dreams stay too close to my heart
like the tortured prisoners of Abu Ghraib
naked in the face of Allah
under the face of the moon
forced at gun point and snarling dogs
into un-Godly deeds of disgrace
reported in the passive sentences of America . . .

prisoners anally penetrated by phosphorous tipped nightsticks
prisoners fondled by female guards
prisoners fed from toilets
prisoners ridden like dogs
prisoners forced to eat pork and drink liquor. . .

one prisoner naked and smeared with mud or feces
arms extended
ankles cuffed and crossed
standing like Christ on the Cross

thus mocking the path of holiness

with

a pornography of violence
the full moon of May in Baghdad
or may not
caressing my own anger
my mother is dead
Hush, Bobby, hush now,
East 96th Street New York City
where that same orangey Baghdad moon rising
fleshy and rosy
startles me
into sudden forgiveness
mysterious Central Park autumn blossoms
falling as memory
already softening up my heart
so I raise my arms in surrender
lie down in that grassy field
I am ready to talk
to ask for mercy and forgiveness
to sit quiet
to spill the beans
to tell everything to the faithful enemy
of my separateness
the world is too full of my words
hearts and blossoms drifting fresh and pure
in the shit and grime.

Bobby Byrd

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