boys

looking up towardthe new gnarled branchof the black manhanging from a tree?is it the white milk pleatedcollar of the womansmiling toward the camera,her fingers loose arounda christian cross droopingagainst her breast?is it all of uscaptured by history into anaccurate album? will we berequired to view it togetherunder a gathering sky?

that is entering even nowthe lip of our understandingcarry you outbeyond the face of fearmay you kissthe wind then turn from itcertain that it willlove your back may youopen your eyes to waterwater waving foreverand may you in your innocencesail through this to that

another creature’s back, i wondercould i have fought these thing?surrounded by no son of mine saveold men calling Mother like in the talethe astrologer tell, i wondercould i have walk away when voicessinging in my sleep? i one old woman.always i seem to worrying now foranother young girl asleepin the plain evening.what song around her…

maybe i should have had braids.maybe i should have kept the body i started,slim and possible as a boy’s bone.maybe i should have wanted less.maybe i should have ignored the bowl in meburning to be filled.maybe i should have wanted less.the woman passes the notch in the ropemarked Sixty. I rise toward it, struggling,hand over…

wrapped in the color of death,to hear from their tonguesuch difficult syllables?are they the spiritsof our hopeor the pale ghosts of our future?who will believe the red roadwill not run on forever?who will believea tribe of ice might liveand we might not?

into the street one sunday morning.i was ten. i had never seena human woman hurl her basketballof a body into the traffic of the world.Praise to the drivers who stopped in time.Praise to the faith with which she roseafter some moments then slowly walkedsighing back to her family.Praise to the arms which understoodlittle or nothing…