Listening to the Lord

            24 September 1999; American Memorial Cemetery
            Manila, Philippines 

A rare treat in Manila—real grass, 
short and green, probing tentatively 
out of rich soil. The sky 
waits to rain—black clouds 
bloated, moving slowly and tenderly, 
as if they might spill open any moment. 
Urban tragedy lies below us— 
an uneven sprawl of light 
dimmed by smog, spread 
about us like a tired dog, 
clumsy sky-scrapers filled with rot, 
paint peeling in strips and windows stained black,
uncomfortably upright, angular, 
like legs kicking aimlessly 
at the humidity. And all those helpless 
people trapped inside! And below, where jeepneys
honk their endless, unmoving parade 
and squatters hold noses tightly shut 
against the hot stench of rivers 
they’ve gradually made hell. 
                                                But here, the grass 
Is painstakingly trimmed, and trees shrug 
upward, branches raised in indifference, 
hanging leaves and pink flowers one acacia sonata
sewn with reflected light, our mingled voices.
The white crosses are rank 
and file, like good soldiers, over rolling 
green hills—heavy marble 
oblivious to delicate landscape. 
We’re talking, of course, about God— 
200 of us, missionaries flown over 
on the wings of testimony,
our parents’ tears. Lucky us, I think, 
these other boys sent in legions 
just to die, never knowing the language, 
the enemy. It’s no sacrifice at all. 
Fittingly, he speaks of Jesus’ 
heavy cross—heavy as a world— 
wood beam pure weight 
on harried shoulders, back broad 
as the sky. The Jews all spit and talk back—even the Apostles
stand back, don’t know what 
to say. 
            Watch how the night plays 
tricks on us. One moment 
those thick white crosses point 
a weighty finger at earth, stakes 
pinning grass to ground, the hill 
rising from below like a sigh, belated, 
undulating; we look again 
and it appears the land is sinking, 
depressed, into the earth, 
and the buoyant stone is lifting 
off like marble balloons. 
The mineral blooms all lined 
in a row, stately stems 
hammered into the garden. 
The sermon is the mount— 
a terrible new law, the wine 
poured out of old bottles like dregs 
into bitter new cups. 
Each eloquent word carried 
by wind, garnished 
with grief—somber decor, really. 
We want to say the word 
so good that even God 
will listen and answer our poem 
with a blessing. Even Jesus 
rested in the grass, 
an ugly cross 
singing in his ears.