spinning

She spin dark brown clay, forming body and mind into soul
She spin her child into bird and lion and dolphin and mermaid
She then place clay inside her womb and fire it into human,
mixed with everything Earth and sky,
gift wrapped in gold and silver glittered orange box
and purple satin ribbons
She fire arms and legs, limbs strong and supple,
eyes wide and dark, mind sharp and ready
She fire child until colors vibrant and set,
a female child she dreamed of, dreamed day and night,
until the clay find its way into her hands
Then she spin and spin until something form
something for Earth to remember
Until she feel her womb igniting furnace heat,
heat to fire clay, fire night, fire light, fire life
She fire her child into existence, from wanting, from love,
a new creature now landed on Earth
from spaces inside a body fired to create life,
fired to let there be life,
and there was.

memories in a can

she was dying
not from disease
it was much more
invasive than that
there is no vaccine for pain
no vaccine for the insecurity
he bred inside her
turning her into a genetic modification
of her former self
her soul is now broken ribs
from steel-toe boots
no vaccine for immortal memories
she wished would expire
memories as long as those
remembered by ancient gods
who watch as their creations die
centuries old rubble
fade to dust with each sunset
her memories are canned goods
created for disasters
made to last until the can is opened
unnaturally preserved life oozing
from the cut metal
she was dying by the inch
dying
from the fist that blackened
her eye five years ago
just after he proposed to her
dying
from the lover who told her
her tits were too small
dying
from memories of the child
who slipped from her womb
still
unmoved by life’s promises
dying
from the canned love
preserved in salt and bitterness
there is no vaccine for betrayal
no vaccine to heal the cut wrists
she sees the sun rise tomorrow
but life is only memories in a can
preserved for the dying soul

 

under the baobab tree

she waited for herself at twilight
under the baobab tree

black skirt raised above knees
red and gold painted bare feet on haunted ground

spirit rising through ancient soil
seeking lost self and awaiting life

the agape dance
gyrating for the coming moon

gyrating for her lost self
smelling sea water on moonbeams

night skirt tugged high
copper skin against cloaking darkness

she is her own lover
she made love

to herself
under the baobab tree

yesterday’s words

there is a forgotten life inside this aging skin
fragmented memories of an ancient epoch

ancestral reinventions laced in lost stories
our flesh matters less than the words we leave behind

the lyrics endure; a griot’s invocation
the deluge of stories return to our waiting tongue

words become anthropomorphic things
with breath and soul; with dance and song

inhaling and exhaling for us
onto paper, onto stone, inside clouds that form ideas

and rain; i am re-fleshing the dusty bones of forgotten worlds
with words; forgotten words

remembered sound inside this aging skin
needing words; needing lost yesterdays