POETRY
Missions
I think we clapped at the end
The hard noise of our soft hands carrying
Over a dirt floor swept clean by the woman
Speaking to us of unspeakable things.
I think we clapped at the end
And it felt wrong, even then
Though we were right to hold our tongues
Struck dumb by things we couldn’t possibly understand.
I think we clapped at the end
But what we should have done was
Torn the sky, touched the salt-stained dirt
To each of our eyes.
I think we clapped at the end
And she looked up, surprised
A frozen smile that might have said
We hadn’t even started to come to our ends.
I think we clapped at the end
Before we fled into that blinding light
Burning fields of cane we later strolled by
The whack of machetes applauding our bravery.
I think we clapped at the end
And again when our plane touched down
Home bound to a place that reminds me to forget
All that its comfort is unable to erase.
I think they clapped at the end
When I returned to share everything I had learned
Even though I knew I didn’t know anything
Except that my palms refused to stop stinging.
Matt Escott lives with his wife and twin 6-year-old boys in Toronto, Canada. For the past 11 years, he has worked with youth experiencing homelessness, and is currently developing a mentorship program for youth in foster care. His poems have appeared in Ekstasis, One Art, and Stone Poetry Quarterly.
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Image: Cycle of Songs Launch at Great St Mary’s 168 hands clapping, by Historyworks, CC BY 2.0, via Flickr.com. Modified by Veronica McDonald.
Heart of Flesh Literary Journal 