Candelària 1993
In his holy name they huddled before his church door for Jesus saves Jesus saves but not the eight, sucking stone with a bullet in their heads their soft heads. It was cold on the steps, late at night where they slept and they slept wrapped in dreams until waking warm in blood warm with blood from the flesh of their friends now never to wake not to wake. For crimes as thief or whore the little children were culled they were culled and the golden streets that glisten under Christ Redeemer Our Redeemer were cleansed of their stains for the carnival must go on must go on.
The Candelária massacre was a mass killing in Rio de Janeiro, Brazil, on July 23, 1993. During the night, eight homeless people, including six minors, were killed by a group of men beside the Candelária Church. Several of the men were members of the police and were tried for the killings, but only two were convicted. —Wikipedia
Saturday Paper
This Saturday of shining grass
yawning cat
shimmers about my hair
as I weigh down the paper
with coffee and a frown.
A ball of brown-beaned warmth
at the cusp of my neck
is my sigh
my breath, a sieve
to filter melancholy.
Black ink presses
into elbows, thoughts.
Words, capitalised, or ugly bold
splutter of young men
with flags and flame
who stare into foreign lens
hear only explosions
breathe only dust.
I deny the world its news
and flip to the lifestyle section;
new restaurants, ways to dress
and think
yet my pulse still hums
along that headline shot
of crumpled bodies
in logo T-shirts
loose-limbed as contortionists
surrounded by rubble.
There’s a tree in the photo
gangly as a teenager
in the middle of the street.
It’s survived the explosion
with a rooted grim resistance
that the dead boys
thought was theirs.
Now, a plum-bottomed ant
scuttles up the wooden
table leg and flickers
on the paper’s edge.
I blow it off, not bothering
to watch it fall
as I shake the pages clean
and return to my shining
grass-scented Saturday.
Pietà
His head rests on my shoulder now. As a child he’d nestle there. When shadows grew, my boy tired from loves and labours of the day would rest as I stroked his hair. We’d walk along the riverbank gathering the rushes where in the still, waiting dusk poppies blazed, and the chill of changing seasons made me shiver as I pictured forming years. His head rests on my shoulder cold-cheeked and grey. At the close of this long dark day he lies bloodless, wasted in my arms as I stroke his matted hair. Stretched on groaning timber his arms spanned a world of love and fear. Forgotten hero to the riot of soul-scared people at his feet. My son. God’s Son.
Kate Maxwell is a Sydney-based teacher. She has been published and awarded in Australian and International literary magazines such as The Blue Nib, The Chopping Blog, Hecate, Linq, Verandah, Social Alternatives and Swyntax. Writing has always been her therapeutic and creative outlet. Kate’s interests include film, wine and sleeping.
©2020 Kate Maxwell
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