Seeker Magazine

Outside the Pale

Kristi Shelloner

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THE AMERICAN PALE


I have walked among the unclean
and am marked by
 your      regret
that  people fall from grace,
and force you to forget

kindness and civility,
				not as outrageous gesture
				to defy your fear of the unknowable human,
				but simply,
				to help to ease the way of one who is suffering.

For what else is there in the face of the passerby,
who, wrinkled nose and tempered stare,
wanders past the unclean Pale
in fear and panic
where the homeless hail

"got any spare change?"

				Pennies come from worn out women
				in rutted pick-up trucks and too many kids,
				BMWs roll their windows up fast, "get a job"
				easier said than done when your life no longer
				fits the niches of their application forms.

To become the other,
to inspire fear,
where the day before
acceptable people called you friend
and never questioned
anymore

the nature of your heart.

				Character reveals itself in hardship not wallets
				I know  many esteemed men who would snatch an
				old lady's purse in a heartbeat, given two weeks
				on the street with no hope. Gives new meaning to
				the word "bum"; those who fed me when the women's
				auxiliary did not roll out the welcome wagon covered dish.

To touch the face of fear
and loss is a gift
we harvest within
to see the unclean in holy light
leads us to begin

to forgive those who have and those who have not.





TRUTH AND LIES

He told me lies about Vietnam.
Embedded in his fiction
were the truths of his soul
he could not otherwise reveal;

Truthtendernessremorseregrethorrorguilt
yearningregardrespectgratitude

All these he expressed to me
in the made up version
of a life he could
honorably hold up to the light of day.

His true life,
the details tawdry in his own mind,
never in mine,
lay buried beneath
generations of habit and custom
designed to hold responsibility at bay.
The price his family,
catholic by heritage,
learned to exact and expected to pay,
would send any man into hiding.

Now he stands alone
in the midst of a field of forgiveness
cloaked in a crown of thorns
of his own devising.

I wish I had let the story stand
as truth.
Somehow it was a seedpod that
protected his humanity.
Now that it's been uprooted,
held to the sun,
will it sprout and flower,
that crown of thorns give way
to cotton,
soft, and yielding,
forgiving and protective,
or will the kernel harden,
crack and die?

What is truth?

When he was 14 his father broke a shotgun over his back.
When he was 16 his father ripped his shirt, fattened his lip, blackened his eye,
in front of family, at the Thanksgiving dinner table, then expected him to sit
at a thankless table as though nothing had happened.

Are the details of our lives truth?
Or is our tenderness, regard, respect, humanity, forgiveness, acceptance
truth.
Maybe the lies we live to protect ourselves from nightmares protect the
truth of who we are.


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Letter to the Author:
Kristi Shelloner at orleans@pcweb.net