The Rights of Fragile Things

Each generation has its moment,

to encounter, by chance or design,

the structure of its own soul-

in the mirror held up by hands

vaster than mere cities,

deeper than currents of swirling

sound-bytes, more prescient

than the direst of headlines. We

walk unarmed through hostile

territory in our own families,

in newly bared images of starkness.

 

What can I say, that is not already

written in far more eloquent

stanzas? I am an antiquated,

repaired, worn object; in a place

obsessed with appearances,

modernity, and the disposability

of the thing. I seek permanence

in roots and community ecosystems

where my peers look for comfort

and the electronic dissociated

contact of discotheques, tv screens.

 

“Love” is a word so overused, it

is in danger of being swallowed

by sheer incompetence. Don’t think,

don’t question, don’t criticize, don’t

you dare ever feel. “I hit you because

I love you. I degrade you for

your own good. You shouldn’t

have provoked me.” Don’t you

love your country and its values?

 

Put your neighbors under the

microscope, but refuse to look in

the mirror. This is not the culture I

was raised in, these are not my

beliefs. We don’t declare war on

knowledge, we don’t embrace

ignorance as a guiding principle. My

peers are uncovering the secrets

of the universe, undoing famine,

striding into the world’s battered

 

places carrying medicine bags and

human kindness. Where were you

when this century required you to

be more than anyone before you?

My church is the forest, my temple

the soil and rocks below my feet. I

hear the voice of my God in the song

of a meadowlark, see the whole of

creation in the powdery scale of

a monarch’s wing. If I don’t stand

for the basic rights of fragile things,

who will?

 

Love has never been respect, tolerance

is not inclusion. Invited to the table

does not mean you get to speak.

You can love something

to its death; or respect its right to be

its own thing, its own genetic luck

of the draw. We who listen to the

wind, we read outcomes, measure

the radioactivity of fallout of human

courses. We would have seen the

murder of Christ before Christ was

born; who never died for any sin but

that of willful blind ignorance and mob

mentality. I am no saint, but even so-

 

this is no longer my world. I see no

future in it for our brand of wisdom.

I turn my back, to seek those who

speak for stones, who hear the words

the wind whispers at midnight. We

who will be lost in the fog of war,

unfortunately, unmissed. It is said,

a woman can either be popular, or

competent. I walk- neither the queen

of beauty, or nice. My words reach

fewer ears with each telling, until I

am swallowed by light, and disappear

into the spaces among the great trees.

Author's Note

I wrote this piece in the weeks before the US 2016 Presidential elections, in response to powerful premonitions about the stakes of the outcome. It is a reflection on shifting mood of the anger-fueled populist movement, and the sense of hopelessness one can feel when you are an advocate for the beautiful and fragile things of the world during the rise of nationalist and fascist movements. Not mincing words- I was, and am, terrified.

Photo is my own. A tigertail swallowtail on bougainvillea, taken in 2015 at a park a few miles from my home.

translated from Spanish- original here:
http://www.writerscafe.org/writing/zorra_encantada/1841354/

Reviews

[Corset]

I can't possibly know what prompted this write, but it's point is clear, in the days of romance words are words and rarely meant, actions speak louder, especially when words fall on deaf ears or confusion, what does this person want from me? what do I want from them and in many cases when words fail... name calling and fists are brandished, what does force gain. Do I seem scary to you? Do I seem hurtful or harmful I wonder, does my presence here harm or reassure? what purpose does it serve to serve a promise? I've probably missed your whole point, judgmental people judge...let them...they have a small world...and yours is vast.

[Raquelita]

Thanks for your review, Corset. Sorry for my delayed response. Suffice it to say I have been drowning- both in work and travel, and emotionally. I have decided to start doing blog-type anecdotes with my pieces in English, to help readers better understand where I am coming from. I added a blurb here. See if it helps your understanding of where I was coming form? best, Marie

[Corset]

I think that's a brilliant idea, not only for your "fans" but also for yourself. whenever I think I might try this, I blogging thing, I sit down and stare at the page and then suddenly I have nothing to say.