Poem By Lori Boulard
Not the ones you might imagine.
There must be peace for those.
I am speaking of a different kind,
made by different feet-
the foreign ones; the armored ones.
These feet do not walk, but run
like hell, hell whose fires
have unpronounceable names.
The sand I know borders no ocean,
but shifts and flies in the face
of everything- silk women in sandals,
the marketplace, change.
In such a place, steps are fleeting;
we make our marks in other ways.
And rest assured, despite what some
proclaim, we are not carrying Jesus.