Red Clay And White Clouds~
I never let go
I find your photographs
in the strangest places
I don't remember putting them there
I met you on concrete
you were looking up at building skeletons of steel
you could climb with eyes closed;
I thought you were looking at the clouds
You said I was the one with my head in the clouds
and in my skin
I never let go
"he is too old"
"she is so young"
"he is huge like a mountain"
"she is tiny as a daisy"
but I was the one always holding us up
your grandmother told me
white people have a hard time
seeing what's right in front of their eyes
because that's all they've been taught to use
which was funny
I said, "Grandmother, I am white"
she said, "Sorry about that"
how we all laughed
over wakalapi, watching the sun rise
Eagle, I can't let go
and I'm still covered in red clay
living back there in a trailer
next to your grandmother's shack
that summer of '84
That was what heaven feels like
I find your pictures in the oddest places
and I fly backward
praying my wings will break
so I can never come back to the hell of now
I want the red clay
the sober days, the drunken nights
the gentlest touch
a fist that breaks bones
My illness is love
and all I have is photographs
in the oddest places
~Each day is a new poem playing its ink through the fingerprints left in a trail of blue dreams from UnderLand to eager keys waiting in an almost sensual panic to be pressed full of another story, another poem, le poesie de jour~ Selene