each rib

(More notes from Hope North/River Blue – schools for former combatants and other survivors of the LRA campaign in Northern Uganda; stored for Virginia Tech: What a Stranger May Know. VT is on the way to Soulographie, and is its sister.)

Night and you can see 360, lighting showing the clouds and the thunder rolling closer; you’ve already washed the dishes and slow heavy rain comes on like a bad man who has gotten old and is counseling children against violence, a separate memory stored in each rib

He wore special glasses that magnified darkness; he leaned back and the whole night poured into his head

I left my glasses in a box or a bag or a personal memory somewhere

The secret message is “somebody was killed, somebody died too soon”

There’s room inside a drum for the entire idea of the heart

Grow old and say less, to make an array a poem


The sun coming around the tree to save you

You think there isn’t much to a tree but it has figured out how to do this to the sun


You hear by the way it’s noisy then quiet in the kitchen that breakfast is ready

There are more bicycles on the road than last year

When only one thing happens, does it have a pace? Because this feels strange to my head and heart

Only a scar is protecting her from death

A stillborn goat beside the door; needed that goat badly

Impatient for dinner the feral cats practice eating certain seeds

The feral dogs enjoy seeing what’s going on with you but they will not act

Furniture we brought outside for the party warping in the rain

There’s a house you’ve never been in, but you remember it; it’s built out of memory

Thoughts interfering with my prayer because I am still, without patience

The sun editing down the frog/grog choir, my walking editing down the insect reels

The dreamy feel of reading a book without taking any of the words in

A rock that was important to the conflict; I am unimportant to the conflict

A life so foreign you expect it to entertain you

You make me curious about God;

what I can’t see in you, but suspect in you by your pace and that about you which won’t yield, draws me in to what I bet is God

Holiness as an effect is what happens when you relent and are decided by the landscape

Holiness in itself is what is happening


The day slow, slow, slow in letting go of farm refuse, the sun made of husks on fire

Patting your pockets for keys and phones

Gerunds waiting for subjects to arrive

No electricity right across the valley

You clothes are washed

Your clothes are dry

We’ll wait in mock-patience for the words to come

The next minute is violent

Service starts soon

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