For when I am weak, then am I strong
Sometimes, I lack command of cadences and tones,
Sometimes, words tumble from my mouth like grain,
At other times words are pulled like teeth.
I sat down by the Manchester Ship canal,
On a cold grey December day,
I wept because of the curse I carry:
The curse of a glint of a light from Elysium
Or Zion or heaven-knows-what-you-will.
I cannot sing the songs of the Lord,
But if I ever forget to sing of the dead
May I be silenced forever. Instead,
Let my highest joy be for my little boy
Who died of meningitis just before
Christmas. If I knew that Babylon
Or Satan or whoever-fucker else
Had arranged this, I would seek revenge.
But, my friend, knives & fists & bullets are of
Little use against viruses and bacteria.