SUBLIMINAL MESSAGES

Beacon

Beacon,

how do I address you?

Because I can’t decide if you are hope

or not—even surrounding you,

there is corruption.

You came to me when I least expected it

(I most needed it), and

you mark a transition;

a merging of inner and outer.

So yes, you are a beacon of hope

for me

and for those holding you, too

you will always shine the light of

linear time—yesterday’s sunset,

tomorrow’s sunrise.

But when I read between the lines,

this smells of something foul,

a melting in the gut;

a twisting melting, decay in the gut.

Politics are not for children.

Politics are not for the innocent,

and that’s what you are,

undeniably. Swaddled in

plush baby blues,

eyes and mouth closed—

blind to the world and silent

for both your missing parents and

the dual winds which wish to

pull you apart.

Beacon, though your presence brings tears of joy,

you do not belong here.

Even if your continued existence

is some sort of sign, to what avail?

If people like me were any good at reading those,

you’d still have a name.

(Besides, child, some might say

I’m fooled by your youth.

Cultural instincts, maternal instincts, pick a school of thought,

but I know what love is,

and I feel it when I look at you,

Beacon.)