BEDTIME STORY

Found this poem I wrote 4 years ago during  "The Interruptive Move: Theology and the Arts"
Wabash Center for Teaching and Learning in Theology and Religion
March 13-15, 2009

I have edited it here


When she wants a bedtime story
my granddaughter crawls into my lap
chooses a history book, says,
"read." Her eyes steadfast on my face
stoned-eyed resolute
I dare not turn away
from her longing

and I wonder how I will tell her
she is German African Cherokee English
a child descendent of slaves
progeny of exterminators
exterminated, dreamers
dream-catchers
nightmare makers

When should I explain to her
that fig leaves never covered
much of anything, that humans
can ignore rivers of blood
silent as stoned-eyed Boy
Bak* remembers from Warsaw Ghetto,
cannot forget, resembles, reassembles
among shrapnel, wooden crosses
torn heavens, ripped and metal angels
rows of Dachau shoes and teddy bears

How will I explain to her that
explanations fail when the smell of children
fill the smoke and cultured people
drink tea at high noon while the ovens work
pretend there is no blood in the walls
continue to close their eyes at concerts
while women boil into soap

I am prepared to explain that her history
is full of many Trails of Tears
that her great, great, great grandmother
might well have set her jaw against 
the bitter Oklahoma cold, stripped 
of her dignity, walked barefoot across
sharp rocks, leaving
Trails of Blood

My granddaughter wants order
and I am prepared to weave fanciful
Tales of Tiamat and Rahab, of Leviathan's
claw wrapped around human flesh
tear, bit by bit, spleen heart lung
get to the root of the matter
fertilize soil with their existence

I will tell her she is not the first
grandchild to look into her
grandmother's face and ask 
whether everything is right 
with the world, not the first
to seek a blessing
to want the world she
knows to be safe
Hers is not the first generation
to bless her grandparents
with peace

I am quite prepared to tell her
that we struggle to be human
we never know what we mean
we struggle to know god
we have no way to know when we do
that clouds in the distance could
always be smoke
and bedtime stories
could always be dangerous.

EDITED March 4, 2013

© Valerie Bridgeman

March 14, 2009

*Artist Samuel Bak, who did a powerful collection of art based in the Holocaust