Amputated Moon

The Lord set me down in the valley,

            the fertile crescent beginning.

It was full of bones:     clavicle, carpal, calcaneus

            lying in the valley:       fabella, femur, fibula

                        and they were very dry.          hamate, hyoid, humerus

He led me around them:         ilum, incus, lacrimal

            in a slow dance:          parietal, patella

                        kicking up the bone dust:        sacrum, scapula, sternum

            stirring the breath of God.       tibia, talus, turbinate

Can these bones live?

Higher, higher they are piled

            800,000-plus dry bones

                        wrapped with sacred cloth:     red, whte and blue

            young, strong bones

groaning in their sorrowful hymn.

Still I dance around

            Seventeen-million more bones

                        lying on their natal ground.

And the dust swirls

            forming a cloud of garnet

                        raising the scent of blood.

Listen, mortal,

            your brother’s blood

                        your sister’s blood is crying,

crying out to me from the ground.

The sobs form the walls of this valley

            and its rhythm-beat

                        drives your dance.

Then He said to me,

            Prophesy to these bones, mortal.

So I prophesy.

            The bones fall together

                        end to end:      metatarsal, malleus

            bone to bone:  maxilla, vertebrae

sinews and flesh echo in the waiting silence.

Prophesy to the breath, mortal.

I prophesy,

            and the breath comes             from the north

                        and the breath comes             from the south

            and the breath comes             from the east

and the breath comes             from  the west

The dead cry out—

            our bones are dry,

                        our hope is lost;

each hour more join our valley with no end in sight.

Who will see us?

            Who will hear us?

                        Who will bring us peace?

And the Lord said,

            Prophesy mortal, prophesy.

*Based on Ezekial 37.  Bone numbers are derived from Iraqi Body Count and US military deaths multiplied by the number of bones in the human body.