Conjecture by Donna Pucciani
What if sun and moon
were to collide in space,
spawning sparks of gold and silver,
little gods and goddesses falling to earth
to make everything right?
The rich would turn their pockets inside out
for an old man shivering in a basement flat.
He needs warmth and bread,
but wants only his wife back. He has saved
her blue sweater from the hospital,
keeps it under his pillow, smells it
when he is too cold to sleep.
What if the eight women bombed yesterday
while gathering wood could return,
scarved and gossiping, arms full of twigs?
What if their broken children could be sewn up
like dolls, resurrected clean and desert-pink,
arms and legs where God put them, shrapnel
vanishing like light to bless an invisible sky?
What if truth popped like firecrackers
from the eyes of politicians, if bankers
ate of a golden fruit that made them
un-Midas their vast incredible coffers
for hospitals? What if the poor
had homes, shoes, books?
What if the four seasons
could follow a gentle sequence:
snow, blossom, leaf and warmth,
moderating all desire? Even if death
remains inevitable–what if
chrysanthemums of joy could fold us up
from our sickbeds as we slept, suck out
all breath before we knew what was happening,
to leave the living gasping in surprise, not grief,
holding a white flower to the heart?