Barefoot in the Bishop's office
selling lottery tickets,
dezplado de la guerra.
The Bishop buys a string of tickets
as long as his arm
from the ex-combatiente.
Vida eterno, he says,
looking at his numbers.
Vida sin ilusión.
Share the feast
at the deepest need.
Jim Bodeen
20 May 2010
Notebook from the month with the martyrs
EATING BREAKFAST WITH BISHOP GÓMEZ
LISTENING TO HIM PRAY WITH HIS PEOPLE
Te pedimos que nos oigas,
que escuchas el clamor de tu pueblo
Medardo Gómez rezando
después de desayunar
I eat like a king
but the day the Death Squads
came to get me, I hadn't eaten breakfast.
I saw people eating termites.
Jim Bodeen
San Salvador
February 28, 2005
RUDA, ANTES LA BATALLA, ANCIENT LEAVES
SEND A BOUQUET OF PERFUME BEFORE THE STRUGGLE
Obispo gets in the car and hands me
a sprig of ruda, canoe-shaped leaves
the size of the moon on your fingernail.
Para su protección, he says. He knows
the yerba buena y mala de su mamá.
Esta mañana, Obispo, ¿Que vamos hacer?
Ataque, he says, striking the air.
Sí, sí, comandante, I say, saluting.
Strong, sweet smell of tiny leaves be your morning shield.
Jim Bodeen
18 de noviembre 2009
San Salvador, El Salvador
LEFT TO OURSELVES
AFTER WORKING THE SOIL
for Bruce & Ann & Karen & Jim E.,
& Connie & Barb & Roy
Now things coming from everywhere
begin to come from here.
What comes up from below
reshapes the continents.
Jim Bodeen
18 May 2010
SONGS MARY SINGS
—for Mary Campbell
Solo le pido a Dios,
que el dolor no me sea indiferente,
que la reseca no me encuentre
Mercedes Sosa who died, sings in the living room
and the song of Violeta Parra lives.
I'm listening where we listened,
with you, Mary, and you've gone,
but we hear your voice plain as day.
May this loss become a presence
not leaving me indifferent. We sat
right here—Mary, Karen and I,
listening to the voice of Fr. Jon De Cortina
talk over an El Salvadoran downpour
in a dirt floor home of campesinos
with people who came to find out.
"November 17, 1991," Mary says,
"Because I know. On the 16th,
we were at the 2d Anniversary
of the Jesuit Massacre. We had taken
the night ride through road blocks
to Guarjila. Mass for the Jesuits
is always on the 16th. It was pouring.
We were the Wisconsin Delegation.
I was a public defender. My grandmother
had just broken her hip." Lisa Zeilinger's
fragile cassette. Mary, on the patio, under tents,
you say, thanks for coming, listen to the woman
say, This time I've bought my ticket, and
the pastor who heard the bishop
say, Me gusta marchar. I like to march.
Since then, I've got new books by my bed.
You tell the hard story of discernment.
You sit with one of St. Ignatius' own—Dean Brackley,
and commit to a larger faith community
than theologians can produce. Your bishop
walks through glass in a crime scene
and you're not afraid to follow. Sobrino's book
drops in the crucified blood of his brothers.
Travel is a faith journey. You tell us
it sounds like a love story: She began
to suspect, and question—at first she thought
it was another man. Then she realized
his involvement was political. How best
to bind. Mutuality and deep respect—
to hear what's happening now, and be changed.
This is what you bring to us, Mary.
Decentralizing the empire—peace
not walls, God's work in our hands
for the sake of the world. Not every wall
is holy. Not what they believe
but where they were born. Disgrace
where Rachel died giving birth to Benjamin.
You are the newest words of Dean Brackley.
Immigrants are God's ambassadors,
and we're all immigrants. So much
coming at us, we can't keep up.
Rutilio Grande, Oscar Romero,
Rufina Anaya—I didn't lose my mind—
the Mary Knoll sisters, each one of us.
Mary, you are accompaniment recommitting.
Say hello to Rafael in Chicago and Puerto Rico.
You turn us around. Instead of over there,
we walk into everywhere. Our story
turned on its head, and sustainable.
Looking for the other with a second chance
to find what's lost in ourselves.
Jim
17 May 2010
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