// Sandra Fees
Alone, early morning I chant
Sanskrit. I don’t bother to translate.
Every word leads to God’s
bliss sky of blueness. By midday,
light filtered through stained glass
casts marbles of gold.
I’m pounding a pulpit somewhere
as though my hand
palmed onto wood
with a thump that surprises even me
could prophesy what is untranslatable.
Late afternoon, when the sun is
lowering itself like a tree drooping
in a storm, the truth gets carried out
on makeshift signs reading freedom
and queremos justicia. No matter
what language you speak,
you know what rises up
is uttered from striking
mouths of fire.