portion of the artwork for Sean Farragher's poem

Broken World
Sean Farragher
(Friday, December 22, 2006)

Christmas makes your year older;
New Year’s Day begins the end.

When you ride closer to wall,
feet over edge your jubilant face
carries slight red marks more
than violent natural green
where heaven spits beyond
right or wrong as violet sparks
no one could watch at once
and now poet loves you.

I wish for pleasure
all seasons in life so dirty loved pure.
I watch twelve thousand turtles lift under
you as if their wiggle blends universal laws.
I am yours for illumination raised
with virgin stars; may the world seem safe.

Every year, tarnish bleeds makes stains
deeper, and trust, a broken ball without hinge.
Architects draw wagons on the sky lift their
sails over the corners of stars as we pray
for deliverance and we caught at escape signal
forward to the last light that untangled dream
that floats as silver pearl with diamond relic.
The museum will be open today.
Dead soldiers gather with their families.

In that stockade, on the front porch, we
climbed over shoulders, bounced, announce
revival and “revanche” while we hoist
white sails cut to center without edge.

Last year, we loved on the side of the road.
You photographed our hands and other parts
said you wanted to keep them forever as icon.

After all, we had measured life’s conquests;
but standards of glory not kept dissolved in brine
with new strains of some great rush of bacteria.
No one on duty; we ran gauntlets with an approximate
illusion. We did so much on the chance we were right.
Why did we fasten so many zeroes to humanity?
How does the virus called mankind live so well?

“May the world seem safe” we speak louder
now as terror smacks bricks, glass and spindled
first drafts into waste left behind long after events?
What we say records history and all the trillion yards
of paper and digital; they will not flutter as ticker-tape.

Shall we make the Broken World one slight
ornament on a new Christmas tree?
When the tree is put away who will watch
the New Year “rocket’s red glare” as the 4th of July
becomes “shock and awe” or other obscenities.

How do we mark down progress
without opening graves? How can we forget
these children who loved America?
Merry Christmas.

“revanche”—policy of reclaiming territory

Table of Contents

FRiGG: A Magazine of Fiction and Poetry | Issue 40 | Spring 2013