To Those Who Fly the Air like Birds and Walk…

I .

seated at a table for two inside Caffè Florian Venice

in the room of illustrious men

what are we but wasps

who sting the throat of the beloved

and unfortunately don’t seem to mind

but rather heighten

our immoral proclivity

for dreamless days

my two nations hating one another killed each other

the German the Czech my brother’s two nations

despising each other killed one another too

the Apsáalooke the Crow the Tsitsistas the Cheyenne

my nations also killed my brother’s nations before and after

I lifted the lid of my bed

and found inside a swarming long-knotted

that broke forth and destroyed me

I wondered if the mercy my beloved granted was gone

II.

it’s true Li-Young Lee and I once talked

as friends or for the moment brothers

though we were strangers we talked

about the nature of forgiveness

he knew me from no one but his attunement spoke

or was it his listening quiet as the dead listen

still as the dead are still but with life in his eyes

to raise multitudes he was leaning his head

forward and to the side then drawing back then

meeting my eyes then leaning in again asking such

questions the questions one asks when fully alive

as trees listen to what is unfailingly prophesied

of winter peering as it does like an old man into spring

his voice so gentle I believe we agreed together to be

resolute to the last breath not forsaking the hope of God

III .

but still I can’t forget while conducting a business meeting

with a friend one afternoon how that friend who I consider my brother

received a text from his wife telling him her own brother

threatened their three-year-old son with a loaded gun

the low thrum and gray black body of a hummingbird appeared  over my shoulder

hovering seeking sugar from the flowers in the hollow of our chests  and we spoke to

the vermilion throb of the bird’s neck as it flickered away

in the blast radius the children of men are more fragile than glass their bodies

become fire become torch become vapor become ash

Notes:

This grouping of three images and two sequences of poems draws from a brotherhood of peace shared by Czech American poet Shann Ray and Southern Cheyenne and Arapaho ledger artist James Black. As collaborating artists on a work in progress called “Brother My Brother,” Black and Ray take as their project the reconciliation of people and nations.

Source: Poetry (October 2025)