Chained to an ancient idea
She took the tool into her hand And began her meticulous labor To shape a thing According to the colors In one’s head We give without asking For return The way a mother might Braid her child’s hair Thinking of vines Of her childhood home The plant she can no longer name And like plow to earth A mouth-full of singing And the bird floating in the tree Eyes fixed on the pistil of the bloom She can see the way the bird Looks sharply The way her own body Sinks into the earth With a certain kind of pain As if the soil were made From fragments of home To say that this is timeless Is not to understand The way time is both fixed And ever-present. She is a mirror of herself Hunched in a furrow of forgetfulness Traded on the land by sweat and burn. Forget me, she says, Forget that my body ever rose on this earth But the bird in the tree keeps peering Keeps seeing Keeps tipping its wings in a distant direction As if there and here Were always the same As if one blanket could cover The beds of millions. Written by Matthew Shenoda
0 Comments
Leave a Reply. |
AuthorFeaturing articles, videos, songs, and material that are in relation to Project Tool. Posted by the ensemble. Archives
February 2021
Categories |