Raptured Brown
Modern poetry modern verse contemporary poetry contemporary verse modern poem contemporary poem
When ordinary men and women change
To being saints, they keep their dun brown hair,
The color of the trite. A martyr’s strange
Eyes happen only when the faggots glare
Below the roasting feet. A man becomes
A hero as a heretic: when white
And gold of aria are needed, drums
Of heaven turn supernal day to night
So far as executioners can tell.
Instead of sun on streets of gold, eclipse
Of moon on smoking Auschwitz starts to swell
Its darkness. Screaming comes from holy lips,
But lips remain the same old human red.
These ravished saints alone can look ahead.