an illustrated book of the lives of martyrs.
Sebastian, tied to a tree, his body mapped by arrows,
others raked with hot combs, skinned alive, martyrs
for their faith. Men, killed for converting pagans
to Christianity; women, virgin martyrs,
chose chastity over marriage, the result: breasts
sliced, eyes gouged, heads removed from necks, martyred
by fathers, brothers, fiancés, who believed it their right.
Humans are creative at finding ways to cause pain. Martyrs
suffer an ungodly amount of torment for love. For love
of a god, they die. For love of family, they become a martyr
as my grandmother did, never a new set of shoes,
her red-rimmed lips stigmata. Her hopes, dreams, desires martyred
for her children. For love of country, in 1916, poets, socialists, teachers,
weavers gathered, plotted, planned their futures as heroes and martyrs
declared war & Ireland free from Britain. On Easter, the Rising,
short skirmish, surrender, prison. Over nine days in May fourteen martyrs
made, then years of rebellion crashing in wave after wave
across Ireland until a Republic. The leaders of the Rising, martyred
for wanting to speak their own language, practice their faith, celebrate their culture.
Today in Palestine, our leaders create shuhadas (martyrs).
Cities are ghosts, cries of children rise like smoke that smolders
in the ruins of buildings bombed by men in military garb as the blood of martyrs
waters the groves where olive trees grow, those not uprooted (as 800,000 have been).
Each hour two mothers die, a photographer’s flash, his last, a poet’s final words martyr
the Twitter timeline. Too many dying, too quickly, too many babies’ names
go unrecorded, entire families gone. Too many names in this new book of martyrs.
We bomb Palestine to rubble, rewrite citizens, rebels into refugees. Witness genocide in real
time. Pluck out your eyes Marceline, bury them in jars, rewrite your grief in the book of martyrs.
