Aidan Vanhoof

by Aidan Vanhoof

Grant her lungs some fresh air
void of smoke and dust, smog
and exhaust, decay and rust. 

Grant her hollow joints a respite
from the stones and grates
and cruelty that pervades
the jungles scattered across
her limbs.

Grant her the grace to find
gold in the grass and
life by the grave, for in time
the chipped sculptures
and brazen troglodytes
will be sent to heaven. 

Grant her the weakness
to find loss to find love,
for strength only comes
once you've been 
crippled. 

Sing to her, lord. 
Sing to her spirit, 
sing to her mind.

Sing to her contemplative
heart, the seeds of which
lay somewhere 
where words speak, 
where people's mouths
are made moths, 
where stolen crows 
honor their dead. 

Where you doused a child's tantrum
in the Red Sea and drowned 
the object of their scorn 
in a scorched Earth's womb.

Sing to her, lord. 
Sing to her spirit,
sing to her mind. 

Sing to it until it dances
to the beat of a sacrifice.