Is this the revival of the Ghost Dance?
Is this what they wanted?
Something hurts here
Layers and layers of pain
That reach through me
Beyond me into something older
The blood doesn’t dry when it’s in the ground
No, it just seeps up to lie under the dirt when it rains
The land will always be parched
It will always hurt with scabs along the rivers
Sometimes when I blink I see its outline
This pain is just beyond my reach
And when I open my eyes there still nothing there
But the stench of iron from old dried blood
Is this the revival of the Ghost Dance?
Is this what they wanted?
Sometimes my chest hurts when I breathe
A hand reaching in to pull out my lungs
And make me feel an ancient panic
Until I fall to my knees in prayer
My legs get scraped and I bleed
Straight from my heart to the shriveled dirt
My blood mixing with the old lava
That burns in the hearts of their descendants
And this land cries back to me
It tells me that my blood is from elsewhere
I wonder if my penance is enough
Or if my remembering is not enough
Is this the revival of the Ghost Dance?
Is this what they wanted?
Sometimes I don’t even know I’m crying
Until my tears mix with the salt of the dirt
And a breeze welcomes me with relief
With a salve for my longing
I am learning to love this place
Enough to feel its history undulate
Through me
Beyond me
I will learn to love the pain of this place
And feel it tear holes in my heart
Weaving through my lungs
So that this land can heal me
Is this the revival of the Ghost Dance?
Is this what they wanted?
They are still alive to me
In my visions they visit me
They chase me and they beat me
These ghosts will not be buried
I wonder if I am dead to my homeland
The earth there does not know me
But I am dead somewhere
So I can live here in shame
My blood is from elsewhere
But I am bleeding here
And I will let my pain rest here
With your pain
Is this the revival of the Ghost Dance?
Is this what they wanted?
Comments: This is a piece of me stepping outside of myself - and into the body of a white man. It was odd. It is also the capstone piece to a longer compilation - which I may or may not post right now. It still needs some work.
Monday, June 8, 2009
Adopted
She collects wanderers like pocket change
Different state quarters that she can use for games of pool
Racking introductions from strangers that will ask
Where
Are
You
From?
And she’ll giggle and shy her eyes away
Because their question is so silly
And at that one moment
They know
Oh what have you done to them, sweet child?
They trace your bloodlines like tree roots
And long to lay at your breast
Hoping that tenderness will leak
Knowledge or milk or sap or salve
To cover windburns from walking along hilltops
That they do not know
Oh what have you done to them, sweet child?
They stroke your arms to contrast your skin against theirs
And kiss your hands to suck sweet pigment
You taste like a well worn bark
Where they can scribble their notes for safekeeping
Because they forgot how to remember
Oh what have you done to them, sweet child?
They stare at the looseness of your hair
Imagining fingers of wind running through
Little do they know that the wind knew your name
Before you were born
But they do know that you are not easily blown over
Oh sweet child, let them be!
They inhale when you flutter your eyes down
Hoping for an eyelash on their lips
So they can finally kiss something of this land
But from worlds ago
Yes, sweet child, you are worlds old
And only slightly less of a wanderer than they
They, they have oceans to cross
But you, dear, are of clay
Red clay from a river bank at Tunkasila’s side
Oh sweet child, let them be!
They will not help you find your umbilical cord
By discovering you
Oh sweet child, you already know what you look like
And their flatteries will never compare
To the clay that build you
To the mother that fired you in her womb
And had to kiss you goodbye with stained lips
Oh sweet child, let them be!
When they ask you where you are from
Because you do not yet know
From which well you draw your tears
Comments: I met a girl in New Orleans once who looked native. I asked her if she was native and she said yes, but doesn’t know what tribe. Her parents were adopted, then she was adopted, and now she’s spent her life trying to find a place to call home. I didn’t have the heart to tell her who she looked like, or where I thought she was from. Did I do her wrong?
Different state quarters that she can use for games of pool
Racking introductions from strangers that will ask
Where
Are
You
From?
And she’ll giggle and shy her eyes away
Because their question is so silly
And at that one moment
They know
Oh what have you done to them, sweet child?
They trace your bloodlines like tree roots
And long to lay at your breast
Hoping that tenderness will leak
Knowledge or milk or sap or salve
To cover windburns from walking along hilltops
That they do not know
Oh what have you done to them, sweet child?
They stroke your arms to contrast your skin against theirs
And kiss your hands to suck sweet pigment
You taste like a well worn bark
Where they can scribble their notes for safekeeping
Because they forgot how to remember
Oh what have you done to them, sweet child?
They stare at the looseness of your hair
Imagining fingers of wind running through
Little do they know that the wind knew your name
Before you were born
But they do know that you are not easily blown over
Oh sweet child, let them be!
They inhale when you flutter your eyes down
Hoping for an eyelash on their lips
So they can finally kiss something of this land
But from worlds ago
Yes, sweet child, you are worlds old
And only slightly less of a wanderer than they
They, they have oceans to cross
But you, dear, are of clay
Red clay from a river bank at Tunkasila’s side
Oh sweet child, let them be!
They will not help you find your umbilical cord
By discovering you
Oh sweet child, you already know what you look like
And their flatteries will never compare
To the clay that build you
To the mother that fired you in her womb
And had to kiss you goodbye with stained lips
Oh sweet child, let them be!
When they ask you where you are from
Because you do not yet know
From which well you draw your tears
Comments: I met a girl in New Orleans once who looked native. I asked her if she was native and she said yes, but doesn’t know what tribe. Her parents were adopted, then she was adopted, and now she’s spent her life trying to find a place to call home. I didn’t have the heart to tell her who she looked like, or where I thought she was from. Did I do her wrong?
Buenos Dias Burqueño
This is for you
El Nuevo Burqueño
Who stutters at the question red or green
And who finds a sense of mysticism in the poor Indian walking down Central
And a tinkle of adventure in driving through the South Valley
We knew this day would come
We knew that this was not over
I don’t care that you are a Daughter of the American Revolution
(give me my freedom back)
It doesn’t interest me that your grandfather was an anthropologist in the Southwest
(give me my bones back)
I don’t give a fuck that your dad was Allen Ginsberg
(give me my words back)
And I know that it’s not your fault
It’s your ancestors
Fair enough
But I also know, like every good Indian
That you are not done yet
And I say Good Morning to the Third Wave of Colonizers
(if you want, I’ll give you your Morion back)
Good Morning to the next generation of Colonization
(or your musket, if that’s where you’re from)
But do not worry, I am not armed
I have no protection against your veil of progressivism
Feel free to ravage me
I cannot separate my body from my mind from my spirit from my land
And you have raped me with your audacity
With your questions
With your unbelievable willingness to search for something that is not yours
(give me my spirit back)
But I am not ashamed
At least our creation stories involved sex
I guess we really have been separated from the beginning
(I can give you your God back)
But I’ll humor you
And when you ask what my religion is I will take out a rock in exchange for twenty dollars and tell you that it will teach you all you need to know
When you ask me to say something in my language I will smile and tell you that I am not your puppet (in my language, of course)
And when you want to know how to go back to the old ways I will show you my uncle’s house with no water and tell you we never left
And some small part of the coyote mind will tell me to leave you there to see if you’ll survive
(you won’t)
But I don’t blame you for being curious
I understand your homelessness
And your desire to find something that will soak up your blood when you die
No, I blame your inability to say the word ‘respect’ in an old language
Maybe I will tell you that there is no word for faith or religion in Diné bizáád
There is only a way of life
And even then I know that you are not done yet
And sometimes I think that the only thing worse than your questions
Are your ideas on how to live a life
That is as old as the dirt you’re standing on
So please greet the day, Mr. New Colonizer
(and give me my name back)
Go get coffee and sit on the patio and lurk in moving history
Save your judgment of the first Indian that will ask you for change for the white hippie pedaling a guitar
Save your mace intended for the cholo walking behind you for the new wave of imported locals
Who might one day ask you ‘What is it with this place?’
And you, drunk off of fumes from the barrio and Pueblo feasts can turn to them and say
It’s Burque
And you will have absolutely no idea what that means
Go run into the day, proud that you’re a survivor of anti-colonialism
You’re lucky you’re in disguise – these parts are rough
And be careful
This place is old and full of tricks and trap doors
And if you’re not cautious you might fall into a pit of understanding
Or trip over something that causes you to bite your tongue
Buenos Dias el Nuevo Conquistador
Y ten cuidado
El Nuevo Burqueño
Who stutters at the question red or green
And who finds a sense of mysticism in the poor Indian walking down Central
And a tinkle of adventure in driving through the South Valley
We knew this day would come
We knew that this was not over
I don’t care that you are a Daughter of the American Revolution
(give me my freedom back)
It doesn’t interest me that your grandfather was an anthropologist in the Southwest
(give me my bones back)
I don’t give a fuck that your dad was Allen Ginsberg
(give me my words back)
And I know that it’s not your fault
It’s your ancestors
Fair enough
But I also know, like every good Indian
That you are not done yet
And I say Good Morning to the Third Wave of Colonizers
(if you want, I’ll give you your Morion back)
Good Morning to the next generation of Colonization
(or your musket, if that’s where you’re from)
But do not worry, I am not armed
I have no protection against your veil of progressivism
Feel free to ravage me
I cannot separate my body from my mind from my spirit from my land
And you have raped me with your audacity
With your questions
With your unbelievable willingness to search for something that is not yours
(give me my spirit back)
But I am not ashamed
At least our creation stories involved sex
I guess we really have been separated from the beginning
(I can give you your God back)
But I’ll humor you
And when you ask what my religion is I will take out a rock in exchange for twenty dollars and tell you that it will teach you all you need to know
When you ask me to say something in my language I will smile and tell you that I am not your puppet (in my language, of course)
And when you want to know how to go back to the old ways I will show you my uncle’s house with no water and tell you we never left
And some small part of the coyote mind will tell me to leave you there to see if you’ll survive
(you won’t)
But I don’t blame you for being curious
I understand your homelessness
And your desire to find something that will soak up your blood when you die
No, I blame your inability to say the word ‘respect’ in an old language
Maybe I will tell you that there is no word for faith or religion in Diné bizáád
There is only a way of life
And even then I know that you are not done yet
And sometimes I think that the only thing worse than your questions
Are your ideas on how to live a life
That is as old as the dirt you’re standing on
So please greet the day, Mr. New Colonizer
(and give me my name back)
Go get coffee and sit on the patio and lurk in moving history
Save your judgment of the first Indian that will ask you for change for the white hippie pedaling a guitar
Save your mace intended for the cholo walking behind you for the new wave of imported locals
Who might one day ask you ‘What is it with this place?’
And you, drunk off of fumes from the barrio and Pueblo feasts can turn to them and say
It’s Burque
And you will have absolutely no idea what that means
Go run into the day, proud that you’re a survivor of anti-colonialism
You’re lucky you’re in disguise – these parts are rough
And be careful
This place is old and full of tricks and trap doors
And if you’re not cautious you might fall into a pit of understanding
Or trip over something that causes you to bite your tongue
Buenos Dias el Nuevo Conquistador
Y ten cuidado
The reMemory of an Old Jazz Funeral
Paul Bearers
The Mississippi River is greater than the River Styx. At least at Styx the spirits can chose a side and the water doesn’t carry ghosts on its surface. Ghosts of slave ships. Ghosts of pirates. Ghosts of a sad longing to escape and drown in the city of New Orleans.
She couldn’t sleep in the hotel that night, but kept her eyes closed so she couldn’t see whatever might creep up and reach its fingers into her ear, injecting her brain with an ancient pain she could never understand.
That feeling was back from before.
One that pushed her stomach into her hear and wrung them until she almost choked up words that turned into bile – into vomit – into tiny hairs that lined her throat.
A perpetual itch that sat in her tubes as a curse.
One eye opened and she saw an arm. Turning onto the other side she saw a leg.
Limbs.
They cluttered her room.
Dismembered but still functioning.
Hands and toes and halves of faces and noses and knees and shoulders and backs and scars.
Scars.
Scars.
Scars.
Eyes shut.
Deep breath.
Scratch.
She heard a scratching on the door that pulled at the itch in her throat.
Scratch.
Eyes open – face.
Eyes into her eyes.
She wept for the ghost that couldn’t cry.
She wept herself to sleep.
She told the other girl the next morning – the one who cried for the land.
With the itch in her throat she asked – why do you like it here so much?
The girl who cried dripped stories of her first time and the blanket of sadness that sat brooding on her shoulders when she first got there.
The film covered her and oozed behind her as she walked the streets.
It filled her footprints and dragged on her shadows trying to suck her in – into this inexplicable sadness – into the indefinable itch.
So she cried.
She looked down and saw that the sludge moved.
There was a dent in the ground and when she looked in it she saw blood and scars and sorrow and a glimmer of relief.
The place was in pain.
She told her that the place was old and that it had collected sorrow. Imprinted by bare soles that had been hollowed of hope.
So she cried for them.
She told her that she didn’t have to – but for her it was the salve for her itch and that she would always sit as the one who cried for the land.
Hymnal
Yea these old bones shall live!
Shackle
Water
Slave
Vomit
Blood
Slave
Yea these old bones shall live!
Shackle
March
Slave
Block
Sold
Slave
Yea these old bones shall live!
Love
Breeding
Slave
Concubine
Tearing
Slave
Yea these old bones shall live!
Noose
Guns
Slave
Running
Slave
Yea these old bones shall live!
Guns
War
Slave
Slave
Slave
Re-enslaved
Yea these old bones shall live!
Boom
Water
Tears
Rust
Tears
Re-enslaved
Yea these old bones shall live!
Thirst
Fountain
Water
Parched
Tears
Re-enslaved
Yea these old bones shall live!
(heart)Beat
String
Breath
(heart)Beat
Tap
Tap
Yea these old bones shall live!
Water
Water
Water
Boom
Water
Water
Yea these old bones shall live!
Dark
Water
Tears
Water
Drown
Re-enslaved
Yea these old bones shall live!
Shackle
Ghost
Scars
Ghost
Block
Ghost
Yea these old bones shall live!
Guns
Ghost
Noose
Ghost
Re-enslaved
Ghost
Yea these old bones shall live!
Thirst
Ghost
Blues
Ghost
(heart)Beat
Ghost
Yea these old bones shall live!
Water
Ghost
Tears
Ghost
Slave
Ghost
Yea these old bones shall live!
X
X
X
X
Ghost
Re-enslaved
Yea these old bones shall live!
Ghost
Restoration
Can these bones live?
O ye dry bones hear the word
Of the Lord!
Can these bones live?
Yea these old bones shall live!
Remembering
She sat in the hotel room alone again watching the river down below.
Itch. Itch. Itch. Scratch. Itch.
The scars returned – pulling along the limbs that housed them.
Itch. Itch. Itch. Scratch. Itch.
This time there were eyes too, that unassumingly searched for hers to ask her if she believed in God. When she saw them they vanished to go seek out God for themselves. There was water outside. Lots and lots of water that soon made he feel like she swaying back and forth – buoyant in this thick sadness.
Itch. Itch. Itch. Scratch. Cough.
The rain on her window reminded her of an old blues song – then of her parched throat. Maybe you had to have a parched heart to sing the blues. Or maybe the city was parched so the rain gave it enough water to survive – or to drown.
Itch. Itch. Itch. Scratch. Vomit.
All the eyes and noses and fingers pointed at her upheaval that created a stench that saturated the floor – slowly growing to thinly coat the room. Joined by smells of stale urine and feces – not of her own but of something old and tired. She wished the waves that cascaded along her window would wash them away.
Itch. Itch. Itch. Scratch. Cry.
She is lonely even though she is not alone, searching in the darkness among these vile smells for something familiar. For familiar scars or limbs. Her coated eyes followed the sounds of waves until she stopped at a dismembered shackled ankle connected to chains.
Itch. Itch. Itch. Scratch. Wail.
Slaves.
Slaves.
Slaves.
The limbs reassembled themselves into bodies - into stories as the eyes still worked to meet hers to beg for a memory.
Slaves. Slaves. Slaves. Itch. Slaves
They watched her as her stomach clenched her heart and she sunk into submission and into a puddle of her own sweat and tears –as if there weren’t enough liquids in the ghost of the ship bringing her to defeat.
Slaves. Slaves. Slaves. Slaves. Slaves.
Eulogy
Even the houses have ghosts
Concrete steps leading to the memory of a door
Still good for sitting on to drink coffee and smoke cigarettes
Or for holding your head on your hands and violently shivering
Thinking of the three nights spent on the roof
Three nights in complete, absolute, unforgiving
Darkness
Covered in the currents of the mighty Mississippi
The same river that imported bodies
That at one point were allowed to have souls
And auctioned their pounds of flesh
At Congo Square
This water took your children too
And shackled you to the shingles of your roof
Yes Master
Now the ghost of the house sits stagnant in the thick air
It too is still remembering those three long nights
It sang too, that night
They sang old hymnals that traveled in the air
Negro spirituals
Just to let you know that you are not alone
Even the dirt sang that night
Reliving the old tradition of the Freedom Train
Except this was another type of slavery
Still wallowing in the same sadness
The old arthritic sadness that the city inherited
And now this is your stump of stairs
Amputated from its purpose and wishing for phantom pains
So it can remember
As it now sits as a headstone
For the life you once had
It makes you wonder if the waters will ever stop rising
Or if you’ll ever stop dreaming of the wave that swept your daughter
From the clench of your arms
But the call of the ancestors was too great
And the same water that brought her family here
Now took her back
And you’re still stuck here on this stoop
Keeping company with ghosts
Writing your eulogy on the headstone with tears
Reparations
I don’t know if I can ever be ready for this place
I am unsure if it will ever want me
Or if it only wishes that I clench the arms of others
As I walk through the streets and alleys
And my only explanation is
Something very bad happened here – right here
Is that the reparation this city begs of me?
I don’t know if I can ever be strong for this place
The memory of pain burdens my shoulders
And after a day of walking around
I notice a slight rope burn around my neck
And a soreness around my wrists and ankles
I feel the likeness of scars on my back
Is this the stigmata of the truly sacrificed?
I don’t know if I can ever believe in this place
Despite the church bells and priests
I know that it was not built on faith
But on a longing to shake fate free from God
And construct it’s own destiny
Putting original sin to shame
Is this the piety required for the canon?
I don’t know if I can ever mourn for this place
I know that it lingers in an open grave
Like the mausoleums that were yawning after the storm
And the bodies inside could peek out at the aftermath
Before they had to be mourned and rested once again
Pushing the number of times you can grieve
Is this the lamentation the land haunts for?
I don’t know if I can ever love this place
Even though I know that it will keep me
It has locked my tears and my visions
And has given me gris-gris
That will always tug at my pain
When the city needs me to cry
Is this the type of remembering that it needs?
The Mississippi River is greater than the River Styx. At least at Styx the spirits can chose a side and the water doesn’t carry ghosts on its surface. Ghosts of slave ships. Ghosts of pirates. Ghosts of a sad longing to escape and drown in the city of New Orleans.
She couldn’t sleep in the hotel that night, but kept her eyes closed so she couldn’t see whatever might creep up and reach its fingers into her ear, injecting her brain with an ancient pain she could never understand.
That feeling was back from before.
One that pushed her stomach into her hear and wrung them until she almost choked up words that turned into bile – into vomit – into tiny hairs that lined her throat.
A perpetual itch that sat in her tubes as a curse.
One eye opened and she saw an arm. Turning onto the other side she saw a leg.
Limbs.
They cluttered her room.
Dismembered but still functioning.
Hands and toes and halves of faces and noses and knees and shoulders and backs and scars.
Scars.
Scars.
Scars.
Eyes shut.
Deep breath.
Scratch.
She heard a scratching on the door that pulled at the itch in her throat.
Scratch.
Eyes open – face.
Eyes into her eyes.
She wept for the ghost that couldn’t cry.
She wept herself to sleep.
She told the other girl the next morning – the one who cried for the land.
With the itch in her throat she asked – why do you like it here so much?
The girl who cried dripped stories of her first time and the blanket of sadness that sat brooding on her shoulders when she first got there.
The film covered her and oozed behind her as she walked the streets.
It filled her footprints and dragged on her shadows trying to suck her in – into this inexplicable sadness – into the indefinable itch.
So she cried.
She looked down and saw that the sludge moved.
There was a dent in the ground and when she looked in it she saw blood and scars and sorrow and a glimmer of relief.
The place was in pain.
She told her that the place was old and that it had collected sorrow. Imprinted by bare soles that had been hollowed of hope.
So she cried for them.
She told her that she didn’t have to – but for her it was the salve for her itch and that she would always sit as the one who cried for the land.
Hymnal
Yea these old bones shall live!
Shackle
Water
Slave
Vomit
Blood
Slave
Yea these old bones shall live!
Shackle
March
Slave
Block
Sold
Slave
Yea these old bones shall live!
Love
Breeding
Slave
Concubine
Tearing
Slave
Yea these old bones shall live!
Noose
Guns
Slave
Running
Slave
Yea these old bones shall live!
Guns
War
Slave
Slave
Slave
Re-enslaved
Yea these old bones shall live!
Boom
Water
Tears
Rust
Tears
Re-enslaved
Yea these old bones shall live!
Thirst
Fountain
Water
Parched
Tears
Re-enslaved
Yea these old bones shall live!
(heart)Beat
String
Breath
(heart)Beat
Tap
Tap
Yea these old bones shall live!
Water
Water
Water
Boom
Water
Water
Yea these old bones shall live!
Dark
Water
Tears
Water
Drown
Re-enslaved
Yea these old bones shall live!
Shackle
Ghost
Scars
Ghost
Block
Ghost
Yea these old bones shall live!
Guns
Ghost
Noose
Ghost
Re-enslaved
Ghost
Yea these old bones shall live!
Thirst
Ghost
Blues
Ghost
(heart)Beat
Ghost
Yea these old bones shall live!
Water
Ghost
Tears
Ghost
Slave
Ghost
Yea these old bones shall live!
X
X
X
X
Ghost
Re-enslaved
Yea these old bones shall live!
Ghost
Restoration
Can these bones live?
O ye dry bones hear the word
Of the Lord!
Can these bones live?
Yea these old bones shall live!
Remembering
She sat in the hotel room alone again watching the river down below.
Itch. Itch. Itch. Scratch. Itch.
The scars returned – pulling along the limbs that housed them.
Itch. Itch. Itch. Scratch. Itch.
This time there were eyes too, that unassumingly searched for hers to ask her if she believed in God. When she saw them they vanished to go seek out God for themselves. There was water outside. Lots and lots of water that soon made he feel like she swaying back and forth – buoyant in this thick sadness.
Itch. Itch. Itch. Scratch. Cough.
The rain on her window reminded her of an old blues song – then of her parched throat. Maybe you had to have a parched heart to sing the blues. Or maybe the city was parched so the rain gave it enough water to survive – or to drown.
Itch. Itch. Itch. Scratch. Vomit.
All the eyes and noses and fingers pointed at her upheaval that created a stench that saturated the floor – slowly growing to thinly coat the room. Joined by smells of stale urine and feces – not of her own but of something old and tired. She wished the waves that cascaded along her window would wash them away.
Itch. Itch. Itch. Scratch. Cry.
She is lonely even though she is not alone, searching in the darkness among these vile smells for something familiar. For familiar scars or limbs. Her coated eyes followed the sounds of waves until she stopped at a dismembered shackled ankle connected to chains.
Itch. Itch. Itch. Scratch. Wail.
Slaves.
Slaves.
Slaves.
The limbs reassembled themselves into bodies - into stories as the eyes still worked to meet hers to beg for a memory.
Slaves. Slaves. Slaves. Itch. Slaves
They watched her as her stomach clenched her heart and she sunk into submission and into a puddle of her own sweat and tears –as if there weren’t enough liquids in the ghost of the ship bringing her to defeat.
Slaves. Slaves. Slaves. Slaves. Slaves.
Eulogy
Even the houses have ghosts
Concrete steps leading to the memory of a door
Still good for sitting on to drink coffee and smoke cigarettes
Or for holding your head on your hands and violently shivering
Thinking of the three nights spent on the roof
Three nights in complete, absolute, unforgiving
Darkness
Covered in the currents of the mighty Mississippi
The same river that imported bodies
That at one point were allowed to have souls
And auctioned their pounds of flesh
At Congo Square
This water took your children too
And shackled you to the shingles of your roof
Yes Master
Now the ghost of the house sits stagnant in the thick air
It too is still remembering those three long nights
It sang too, that night
They sang old hymnals that traveled in the air
Negro spirituals
Just to let you know that you are not alone
Even the dirt sang that night
Reliving the old tradition of the Freedom Train
Except this was another type of slavery
Still wallowing in the same sadness
The old arthritic sadness that the city inherited
And now this is your stump of stairs
Amputated from its purpose and wishing for phantom pains
So it can remember
As it now sits as a headstone
For the life you once had
It makes you wonder if the waters will ever stop rising
Or if you’ll ever stop dreaming of the wave that swept your daughter
From the clench of your arms
But the call of the ancestors was too great
And the same water that brought her family here
Now took her back
And you’re still stuck here on this stoop
Keeping company with ghosts
Writing your eulogy on the headstone with tears
Reparations
I don’t know if I can ever be ready for this place
I am unsure if it will ever want me
Or if it only wishes that I clench the arms of others
As I walk through the streets and alleys
And my only explanation is
Something very bad happened here – right here
Is that the reparation this city begs of me?
I don’t know if I can ever be strong for this place
The memory of pain burdens my shoulders
And after a day of walking around
I notice a slight rope burn around my neck
And a soreness around my wrists and ankles
I feel the likeness of scars on my back
Is this the stigmata of the truly sacrificed?
I don’t know if I can ever believe in this place
Despite the church bells and priests
I know that it was not built on faith
But on a longing to shake fate free from God
And construct it’s own destiny
Putting original sin to shame
Is this the piety required for the canon?
I don’t know if I can ever mourn for this place
I know that it lingers in an open grave
Like the mausoleums that were yawning after the storm
And the bodies inside could peek out at the aftermath
Before they had to be mourned and rested once again
Pushing the number of times you can grieve
Is this the lamentation the land haunts for?
I don’t know if I can ever love this place
Even though I know that it will keep me
It has locked my tears and my visions
And has given me gris-gris
That will always tug at my pain
When the city needs me to cry
Is this the type of remembering that it needs?
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