This House is a Minefield
by Vikki Nemorie

I've learned to throw stones
and wait,
to forfeit the straight way
for safety.

But sometimes shards still strike
silent, distant sentinels-
peacekeepers arbitrarily posted
by birth.

Only the cynic knows
for certain
whether the walk
to the Jordan
is courage
or suicide.

All the signs spell fear.

Unexpected bursts
burn bitter nerves numb;
normalcy explodes into hate,
and the collective decision
to forget buries
memory
innocence
and trust
as collateral-just meaningless damage.

Foxes have holes,
and birds have nests-
but, Suffering Servant,
would you lay your head down here,
where I close my eyes?