Poetry

Hailu preaches and we tune
our vision toward him, turn
our palms to heaven.

We hear an echo of jail hymns,
“I want to know Christ
and the fellowship of sharing.”
He recalls trial like a man
talks of his childhood: confident,
changed and strangely—wistful.

To the suburbs, the whites
of his eyes are like Ethiopian saints’,
holy and large.
We have our martyrs, too, submerged
under stones and ropes and frozen baptisms.

I think of the Esaus, Penners,
the Reimers, homes an open cell,
men dragged off one by one,
where stifle was worse than scream.
“My testimony is no different,”
Hailu says. “No Christian pastor
escaped the communist hold.”
I remember my ancestors in Russia,
who after barely escaping sainthood,
picked California grapes, fed
and raised their quiet children,
who somehow forgot
how to talk about crying.

Hailu leans into the pulpit,
clutches the unyielding
wood, he is a dark tree
and warns, “If you truly follow Jesus,
the land of democracy will persecute you.”

Our limp hands lie,
some open, signs of grace,
others folded, already blessed.
Our overflowing carts await.
Hailu closes his eyes.
“Are you willing to suffer?”
We nod, we know and think we know,
but we do not applaud.

Katerina Friesen lives in Mariposa, Calif.