In his lithograph, The Martyrdom
Beckmann renders a boozy spectacle,
Batter in a basin, your body.
Can you picture man in dowdy dress?
Pocket protectors sullied by death.
Splayed like a punctured steam cake?
By now, your beloved cat Mimi
has turned over in her grave.
Cut of your body, angular lines.
Beyond Beckmann’s star-studded sky,
boughs of holly, loose cannonball—the IDF
hit home. Sclerotic knuckles, a prison
wall, and the unpopular view.
Had there been more at the margins?
Peopled, dazzlingly
blue with impatience,
fed up with unlawful detainments,
virtual touch, munitions. Death
is so presently unremarkable this Christmas,
despite the birth of our Arab prince, it
touches me and you. The morally ambivalent
coil of history about the mandrake vine
is not yet sleep befallen, is not yet sleep.