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:
The Prayers of the People
by marci johnson
i.
The street
this thunder
that does not bring rain
only faces, liquid apparitions
in the smoke stack fog,
waiting for the wheels
to wind down--
I am walking
through the gutters bare
footed with the man
and his bags
and his shopping cart,
twisting tin cans
between my hands
and the blood flows
like water, sacrificial hand,
dry thunder drumming
overhead until the noise
becomes me
only say the word
ii.
The crowd
shifting feet, stench
of flesh where heat
melts from faces
salty tears, here
the air hangs in
grey folds clinging
to the bones of buildings
scavenger wings black
against a yellow sky--
he catches my eye
with his, unblinking,
feet gnarled like
the roots of
some old tree
only say the word.
iii.
The tombs
broken stones
jutting from the sand
like useless teeth
gnawing at a dead wind
that pushes the screams
out from lipless mouths,
skin stretched tight
two marionettes
in incoherent dance,
clattering heads
together, beating hands
upon the rocks
only say the word
and send us,
only say the word
and send us into the sea
iv.
Say the word,
stand upon the mountain
and prophesy--
prophesy to these bones
rotting in the basin
of a dead sea,
metal and marrow
sucked dry by a dry wind
howling hollow dust
the shards of rust and
clothing, the earth
has turned to sand
and there is no water
to turn into wine,
only blood, dried
in the eyes of the dead;
there is no one left
to say the word
v.
Only say the word
and we shall be healed.
Only say the word.