Cold and not cold nor all the way past…
Like, I remember praying to a maker, my
bedroom in Norwalk…and a plaything moving
under a bed.
Spread across the ceiling playing like a movie,
was a stack of photographs being flipped
through and animating and acting out
something my grandfather had done.
Marvelous crayons drew stick figures on
my walls, and I talked to imaginary people for
the rest of that night, and sadly I can barley
recall what any of them said.
There was a trick I used when my father
took a belt and beat me – because there was
no where to hide outside, I learned to hide
inside like a turtle.
I was the turtles turtle, flesh inside shell
barely aware that an angry man was abusing
my body, I went on vacation, and have just
Nothing can bury my spirit. No one is in
charge of my heart. I can not be defeated,
and I no longer wear the shell my father or
his father wore.
My arms – my glorious arms and my vigor…
and the grace and dignity of ten thousand
generations (the monkeys and the men,
and my dear mother lit candles,
and held vigils, and vesper sang until the
spider tree withered in flames) And now I
remember that the cover of darkness was
just a blanket I used to keep warm.
I am the seed of old men and women angels,
and all that came before me speaks clearly
through me to my children and says – “We love
you – go now, and teach the other turtles…”