Monday, February 29, 2016

The Exodus

You come with your guns

and wagons to drag us from the cliffs. Their stone red in the desert sun.

Beasts that rose  from volcanic fire. They have protected our village

and inside their caves, we have painted our gratitude. The bones of our dead

linger as gates  to an another life, ancestors dye the wind dark

with their shadows.  We see them pass; and they have warned of you.


You will take us to a camp. Clothe us in shame

and stuff our tongues with new words

that have no sacred roots, no taste of the wild, And with  women

like me, you will  corset our breath and coil our hair

binding both with  hooks and pins. Preparation for something

found in  bride, bridle or bribe. I  can't remember which one

but in any language, I know this -- you separate us

 from our house and customs, leaving  swallows to dwell in the cliff.

Our pathos in their birdsong, their earthen gourds

filled with the scent of dust.

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