God’s Karateka

“I will appear before God with empty hands.” -- St. Thérèse

Illustration by Daya Callan

Dame Edith tells the story of a Catholic girl
who fell in love with a Protestant boy.
She was determined not to let a little matter
of sects get in the way of her happiness.
It didn’t harm that Ed loved stories
as much as she did. They wrote of words.

Asking Jesus’ mom for guidance;
the Virgin Mother let all the flowers
in the garden bloom the next morning.
Edith had her answer.

They married, had kids, didn’t exactly
live happily ever after (Ed went away)
but were as close as they could get
to ecstasy and literary paradise –-
words brilliantly uncommon,
words garden variety, words warring
east and west, words begat worlds.

At St. Therese’s little church
north and south united.
Blades swirled in blurred motion,
poetry bouquet caught in blades.
Petals and blood nectar splattered
Edith’s story in sequel.
The necklace winds its way
back down to the clasp.

Demons Don’t

The Jews all live
by the coast,
the sea that Philistines
said they’d drive them to.
Abraham cries in heaven
looking down on his progeny
wipe each other out.
While black rain falls
in bushels full of torrents.
The Torah birthed the Koran
by way of the Bible.
Bile in words that spawn
wars of race and pride.
Landlocked hatreds,
giants taking sides.
Fires smolder in silos.
The devil smirks, I smile.
I got a shot at heaven.
Demons don’t.

Ode To My Unborn Fourth Child

I would have taught you
how to play basketball
on a 3-by-4-meter hardcourt.
I would have taught you
how to scribble pencil marks
on bare walls.
But you wouldn’t have needed
my help with that.
I would have taught you
how to fish with bamboo pole,
nylon line, sand centipede on hook;
cook little ciclids
on open fire of coconut leaves.
I would have taught you
one-step sparring
and disarming pretty girls
with quick footwork and a smile;
as you put me in my place
with a stern look.
But love wasn’t so kind
the first time around.