The Blamed, Lucky

They came as doves slept in darkness,
when pigment precluded peace
and they numbered one-fifty,
a swarm,
a salvo,
a sweep,
where a bride did weep
and children cried into
the point of a barrel.

The night-market man
fingered the inseam of his vest,
belt-high.
"Are you Christian?"
he asked, and I said, "I believe"
in front of a stall selling
leather and winking knives.
He eyed my daughter,
eating ice cream,
eight ethnicities coalesceing into milky skin
and set his feet wider. "I am Muslim."

Now I laughed out loud,
because this is how I deal with
other people's shit,
and extended my hand.
"Hello brother," I smiled, and . . .
slowly . . .
his hand met mine,
despite skins
and the brown fear in my pants.

"Pop" said the little one, later,
"he was nice but
something smelled like poo-poo."

A goddess can not kiss everyone,
and the one-fifty
went looking for brown
as owls slept
found it
found him in bed
asleep (a student)
awoke him (the student)
arraigned him (the student)
arose her (his wife)
afear'd (his children)
at four a.m. -
the time when the guilty disappear.