Tony Jraije

1

the upheaval that has come may touch with heaven
but it will rest in the curled arms of you
like the single word from cain and abel's story
that changed each instant in each translation
every word when spoken will never change

i found the hebrew way examined already
the word in their text, mayeth

so we can reach the highest skies, maybe
maybe we can't but we may

we may straggle but we may do so together
a reprisal may call on us and take us
prompting our lips to be kissed by the other
the reared hand, the ammonia may accept us

we may see again and we may lie together
the blind may at any point blame
but i may never for i may just hunger
to see you under the knowing light, open


2

following the birth, shavings from scraped centres of chestnuts fell on fire.
the water was saved in its casket for the child who was tiredly wobbled in
arms. plain sun shone havoc on pleased eyes, sick eyes, watering
demonic eyes. the fathers pedestalled their fingers on each other's hands,
one singing to lead the other.

the people, lifting their own bodies for intervals within the window of
salvation. eden flowers hormonally regenerate shedding adam before the
exit of the garden. the people ramble with their feet fluently away from
the burning of this flesh heart. he falls upon a bed of burnt flowers that
were for love; the black dress of.

following the distillation, swarms of slithered ash fall to earth and are
ground. together holily banding black in desolate eyes, beat eyes,
sinned; umeant eyes. squirrelling, gloating; dead. grating eyes gaping
soaring in morbid flight. the dead flames remind as they're lit that a blue
gown will one day accompany rosy sight.

tears will come red and stain below the eyes to remind of the mothers'
relics. on her day the doves will relate prayer across ivory sand. the
priests of gods will fathom empty churches and dripping statues for they
have not seen sin among their stout pews. they have not stroked eden's
hand along the headstone of mistaken eve.

how water has taken, the fathers are unaware as they pounce their fists
into the pool humming strands across heads. symboling above the
shivering eyelids squinting. the souls rest when they recall looking up
from under the water. the plain sun shone to them stinging.
even doused. even in the wholly hands of god they were not flushed.

the sun shone the iris trinity in the spiralling of their hands. the fathers
and son's holy spirit crept a creaking under them in their wood seats. the
holy sound proclaims they are alms with arms out and empty hands.
miracle beggars with uneven hanging relics of the mother who could only
bear the son of god around their necks.


3

have you ever whispered softly to yourself the words from a book
a timeless piece of old country lives and characters
have you taken a breath in and felt the urge to yawn
have you gone through with it, bending but maintaining the whisper
like the old woman who sits in dim light, occasional rosary slipping through her fingers
and you hear her indulge in an intended silent prayer
but her breaths grow old and her words age solemnly in god's fisting fleet
it is then she yawns, and she wanders across
indistinguishable suns and moons indecipherable
and her breaths claim she is tired, rushing for sleep she tramples her own heart

the yawn in such a circumstance is the spirit bellowing in the deep pink of god's glow
it is hypothermia in the willing and devout arms and blanket of a lover
the bight defined to her by the white clouds at night camouflaged with winter's fallen
it is christ's nostalgia, the trail of gashes that led to his pierced palms, his thorned scalp
the dead who are awake, the life dying, stoically unite and bask in her recital

groped in this tremendous death, her words are beads on untied thread
following each other down with the eyelids that hide the white left this night

have your breaths ever led your mouth to gallop along the torn veins of heaven
an opening in the sky split as wings where the light soars away from
have you felt this urge to yawn under the broad blanket of wonder
like the child dangling from the sharp pierce of the set sun between the mother and the father
and you hear this child's whimpers as soft hops are lifted from earth to a cradle


the yawn in such a circumstance is the ghost tapping the arm of a chair or a cross
it is annihilation in the willing and devout arms and blanket of a dream
the coven that circles this retreating family along their matrimony, placing it in twilight
it is the virgin mary's bewilderment, the drips of blood from her eyes, her aching knees
the lies that murder, the death from mouths, hint the first sign of crumble as the child drifts


struggle lapses the father's arms, his strength presses to plea his love as they walk together
but it is dark now and the mother cannot see his embrace or the strangle bruised beneath the skin
they continue on unaware of the plotting smoldering moon, the hollowing space above their heads

have you ever witnessed the healing ritual of foil that takes new shape in water
a middle eastern woman heats the metal before she holds in the air and lets it drop
her true voice is hidden behind her whisper, and she too yawns under healing prayer
have you ever heard the foil's crack when it forms the shape of a miracle
have you loitered close to her gethsemane hands long enough to witness a cure
she will gather her tools placing them in a bowl and leave, and this will be a miracle itself

the yawn in such a circumstance is the begotten son's first moments of sense
it is the god's maundering to the plain, their holy father withholding the sign for their death
the hollowed space, god's liaison to life and to the beautifying death that sparkles and departs
it is the resin that dripped from magdalen to the bare feet of christ,
dripped from his brow to dirt
it is the dyed lives, the deadened

shakey hands of the woman pinch the nerves of her spectators, she drips and struggles
for she knows to be sick is to be condemned and without reach but it is her heart at work here
attempting to ease the tension proclaimed by each angled corner of the pale room
the walls will never be this close again, for death awaits to tangle the minds of the ill

have you ever perused the sun that hunts your hunger through every season
cups of confused hands line the eyes to keep this shining life away, to remain unharmed
but just like every crack that is lightened, the dark creviced man will always hunger
like the blushing cat of the old woman who loses her reason for bringing the thing in to begin
and she precautiously begins to starve it and herself of her own duty
she yawns an uncomfortable yawn from the whining that spreads her floors with the warning
if she feeds she will be fed, kept, in the undying kingdom of everchanging nature

the yawn in such a circumstance is the negligence of a virgin in the path of the peering devil
it is god's nervous hands that create perfection, a carving so precise must have a weight to counter
it is the worry of her saviour who combusts before her eyes to trick her from the way of evil
it is eve's hormonal beginning and the missed statement of her own nature; her opening
it is her fruit, it is her rottening

the empty stomach of the old woman yearns for such perished fruit to enter and find home
but she will be taken soon and so she pledges to only take from that presented to her
sure, time allows her death to exceed the frail pussy's but this alone brings her partly under