Peace is the
dividing cell
ferocious in the marrow.
It coats the bullet,
cannot be marched to
with signs or weapons.
Peace is the vulture
loving the corpse,
the rising mist
on a mass grave.
It never left.
It pulses
under the noise,
Peace does.
We thought we
could name God.
And we did.
All of God’s names
are God’s names,
even the one
you cannot speak.
Like God,
Peace has every name we ever gave it.
It is upon the back of the cockroach.
Peace has always loved the shiny armor
of a cockroach.
appeared in Cafe Review Spring 2007
