The fine hairs of my skin shimmering
In the sunlight over the blue-tinged
Veins in my hand give me pause. I feel
Warmth, the layers of skin on top of
Blood and bone, my invisible musculature
Forming my presence in the world.
My body, my frame. I breath deeply into
The tangible experience of living in
In this body, both rooted and floating
We sing songs into our cold hands
Around a bucket full of flames.
History cools against itself, as
Flares break the skies like an
SOS to our collective memory.
We whisper this land is no land,
Just echoes of taxless frontiers
Where we weep and build and crumble.
At the center of strength
Is weakness, cultivated fracture
Sustained by casings of muscle and
Fascia and fear and heartache
In the midst of force lending
Instability to unexamined stability.
I drink coffee,
A little girl screams.
I walk to the balcony
To peer over the street
In either a wave of humanity
Or morbid curiosity.
It’s difficult to know
In the moment. She is
running with red hair
Like fire behind her, echoing.
Behind her a woman walks,
Hair colorless, with a
Grocery bag and a gait that is
Too calm for the situation.
She confers with the downstairs
Neighbor while the girl disappears
Out of sight. And this is how
Violence passes, unseen and
I speak like a rose bush:
Whispers of sweetness
We stand, toes wriggling in
Sand and sink
Eyes fixated on the horizon