Easter (a poem born on Holy Friday)
They call it Benghazi now.
his childhood home
a street lined with soldiers and rifles.
the locus of violence,
site of mass grave(s),
shuttered shops, vacant compounds.
We drove through Golgotha.
too many crucifixions,
not enough resurrections.
On the other side
a mountain range made of clouds
against the open sky of pale blue.
room for hopes to catch the wind
flutter like a kite
floating above the palates of green.
speeding across the landscape
I’m tempted to let my kite rise
after all, Sunday is on the horizon.