Where is Alex, keeper of horses?
Nobody knows.
...Well, maybe he's in the madhouse,
And maybe he's sleeping it off..
Dreaming of horses and leather.
And maybe, with luck, he's dead.
I know an Alex. We took him in one day shy of 18 years of age, an undocumented minor from Honduras with a history of domestic abuse from his father who forced him to work at 8 years of age, his mother having left him at 2. We knew him by another name, but he told all his friends he was Alex. He was such a wild beautiful heart and I imagine his dreams were of wonder and possibility. But in this world he was a breaker of hearts. We finally asked him to leave the house, too many broken promises amidst a background of substance abuse and run-ins with police and jail. I have not seen him in over a year, and I wonder where he is, sleeping on the streets, in jail, dead? I almost dread that he will come by again, for this brings chaos and pain into our home. And yes, love.
Yesterday I learned what I could of the horrific earthquake in Haiti. One picture showed a little girl, dead, half buried in rubble in the street, her head in her arms. It would be so much easier if the dead and broken were all the way buried so we wouldn't have to witness their lives.
Since reading these poems, Mary has shown the tension of beauty and death, grief and abundance. In this poem, where is beauty? In the brokenness? In death?
Who do you wish would go away from you so you wouldn't have to witness their brokenness or suffering? What is your response to the pain of the world?
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