Inhale their smell, relax, remember me 

said my friend pushing the prayer beads into my hand

Lifting them to my nose is a moment’s journey

How generous the seed of the juniper tree

Like red wine dried to grains

bright and full-bodied from within

Pouring through my fingers 

they leave behind their lovely scent 

This is the fragrance of the ancient church

incense trailing from a censer

 

As I stroke the beads two Jesuit priests appear 

Glass vase with rose buds, Mother Mary’s altar

angel trinkets, then blood so much blood

because priests are killed with care in my country

The murderer would say “it was an immoral promise that he spread”

He wasn’t yet eighteen

while I age years in a single day

 

How hard the seed of the juniper tree

Like spilled blood dried to grains

lukewarm gutter lukewarm gutter 

pouring through my fingers

Eyes dimming I stagger more and more 

Still they make you walk 

always towards a place you will never reach

a destination without respite

 

As for after well there is no after

after is a graveless death

in the back of a truck or a passenger boat

stacked like goods piled on top of other goods

like migrants

dying the oldest of deaths as if it were a new life 

 

As for after well there is no after

After is a statistic after is breaking news

Murder at the hands of the state prayer beads can’t contain