he was killed yesterday;
these fields i pass
on this black oil pavement
are yet unplanted
though it is late in the season already—
the rain win(d)s these days,
forbidding the sowing.
This has been a peculiar spring;
soldiers lying in wait for death
like autumn waiting for winter—
it snowed both May Day and today.
While we witnessed
God’s solidarity with the poor,
Seals hunted and killed in Pakistan.
They buried his body at sea
like farmers knowing full well
that seeds planted in flooded fields
Have yet more of the same seeds
gathered out there,
scattered out there?
Will we find each one
to cast them like
(and stupefied by hate)
into the sea
one by one?
How long will this take,
this collecting and destroying of seeds?
Are there enough farmers or Seals
to plow this field and clear those weeds?
Shall I rejoice that a man was killed yesterday?
Let me boast in The Other Man
who was killed,
cast as a seed in the ocean,
On the third day he rose to the surface
and conquered the sea,
swimming its length
(in unending breast strokes)
so we can plumb its depths.
i’m sure we celebrated
this new world record
nine days ago.
i’m sure i rejoiced.
Shall i rejoice now in death
when i know there are firstfruits
for the reaping
and rich wine for the drinking?
i was told once that Easter is so wonderful
its celebration spills over for six more weeks.
(Of course eternal life can’t be contained all in one day.)
Shall i celebrate death
in this season of infinite possibility
when the New Time
is neither military nor common?
No, let me celebrate the seed that blooms in the desert—
Adam Farmer, who plowed and tamed the unforgiving ocean of death.
one seed d(r)own(ed)
a poem by troy cady
after osama bin laden was killed