Poetry, Volume 3; Issue 2

The wound was deep
a gaping hole 
across the landscape of his heart.
He tried to fill it with words,
but they came tumbling out
like weeds, in a garden 
where nothing could grow.

The wound was deep
deeper than sorrow
deeper than tears
too deep for straw-covered flasks of Chianti,
rose-colored nights 
frankincense or myrrh

He tried to fill it with song
blazing guitars
Pink Floyd, Led Zeppelin
hard rock dissonance 
that could deafen a crow
but didn’t touch the seeping
in his soul

He tried to fill it with prayer
but neither the incantations of the Jesuits
nor the davening of the Jews
could burrow through the 
density of that fog

The wound was deep
too deep to suture with catgut or silk thread.
He even asked his mother, but long gone,
she could only whisper memories
in a tongue he didn’t know

Until one day, tired of searching,
weeping, seeking;
a passing shaman in Belize,
bowing low before the man, asked
where he found that gemstone;
      and looking inward, the man saw
      not a hole but heaven
      in his tears.

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