who are your people?


she sits in the crooked branches of a maple tree
surveying the wilderness that surrounds her ordinary body.
she imagines herself strong and fast like a horse
with soft ebony eyes and muscled flesh.

the darkened windows in town see nothing.
burned ashes of the dead after battle
their charred remains pungent in the air
low moans of the wounded enter her without apology.

she is witness to all.
trigger warning for description of ritual murder
who are your people?

i love making complications
unbalancing equations
like when you ask

who are your people?

who besides every living and
nonliving being
how to separate one from
the oneness of everything?

in a line up-
do i take the swarthy one
who looks most like me?

are my people my ancestors
my lovers from past lives
my scotch-irish great grandmother
who hovers impishly over my shoulder
with sage advice, about it
bad jokes, cackling laughter
and a swift kick in the pants should the occasion arise.

who are my people?

people are bodies

people are energy
paper bags
olive trees
the quality of light in winter.

who am i?
i am the Beloved
i am the sun
i am a styrofoam cup with sticky fuscia
sugar water congealed at the bottom
and clinging desperately to the side.

i am a work of art that forgets
my own magnificence.

i am hovering over a naked child
eyes dilated drugged strapped down
to a fate neither of us chose
the ritual knife in my small palm
glistens gold steel ruby
reflects nothing in the eyes of
the man i am

i stand over my daughter
teach her to hold the instrument
i pass down pain
red torches of rage light
my abdomen
bursts aflame

i am heat moving quicker than
words meet paper the sun
my creator
i am the sun
i am one.

who are my people?

in temples of egypt i learn
to make my body sacred
creating shapes in my palms
i catch god’s secrets

the sun her eye
radiates over rocky crevices
la luna reminds us of his heart
the earth her battered body
temple desecrated
we leave him battered and lonely
as the conditions of our own souls.

chests tighten cold fists
around the pain
the pain

stick brown bodies
corpses like corks in a dam
but damn that doesn’t stop
the bleeding.

slash the face of our
Beloved Creator
we find in the looking glass of
it is our own that bleeds.

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