She will not walk away and leave these bones
to an old woman.
She is a green tree in a forest of kindling.
She is a greeen girl in a used poet.
She has waited patient as a nun
for the second coming,
when she can break through gray hairs
into blossom
and her lovers will harvest
honey and thyme
and the woods will be wild
with the damn wonder of it.
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it is hard to remain human on a day
in the trees and the squirrel eyesdo not look away but the dog ones doin pity.another child has killed a childand i catch myself relieved that they arewhite and i might understand exceptthat i am tired of understanding.if thisalphabet could speak its own tongueit would be all symbol surely;the cat would hunch across the long…
she
is it any wonderi hunger to tunnel backinside desperateto reconnect the rib and clayand to be whole againsome need is in mestruggling to roar through mymouth into a namethis creation is so fiercei would rather have been born
listen children
you have for keepingalwayskeep it all wayswe have never hated blacklistenwe have been ashamedhopeless tired madbut alwaysall wayswe loved uswe have always loved each otherchildren all wayspass it on
i am accused of tending to the past
as if i sculpted itwith my own hands. i did not.this past was waiting for mewhen i came,a monstrous unnamed baby,and i with my mother’s itchtook it to breastand named itHistory.she is more human now,learning languages everyday,remembering faces, names and dates.when she is strong enough to travelon her own, beware, she will.
when I watch you
sitting, surrounded by the smellof too old potato peelsorwhen I watch youin your old man’s shoeswith the little toe cut outsitting, waiting for your mindlike next week’s groceryI saywhen I watch youyou wet brown bag of a womanwho used to be the best looking gal in Georgiaused to be called the Georgia RoseI stand upthrough…
and the gulf enters the sea and so forth,
all of them carrying yesterdayforever on their white tipped backs,all of them dragging forward tomorrow.it is the great circulationof the earth’s body, like the bloodof the gods, this river in which the pastis always flowing. every wateris the same water coming round.everyday someone is standing on the edgeof this river, staring into time,whispering mistakenly:only here….