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Sport 37: Winter 2009

They do not want to fight and kill

page 63

They do not want to fight and kill

The little ones are heathens—
see the dirt on their faces.
They do not want to go in the wicker boat
lined with animal skin
and row backwards into battle.

Why does he even bother
with these reluctant ones
with their leathery knees and elbows
and their crouching
and their milk teeth?

Once more he calls on them,
pours wine, offers his suffering eyes,
but they will not go to that fragile vessel
moored on the shore—
even when the sea is golden.

They are touched, though,
by the wickerwork boat,
its damp and pungent animal skins.

Father is a patient man. Adjusts his collar. Comes back day after day to preach to the little ones who scatter before night settles.

I am a stranger in a strange land,
he calls, and still you won't come with me.
The little ones are quiet in their trees and ferns and clayey caves.
When he goes, they call to each other through the dark—
the call and reply of doves.