brink of death--
telephone lines transmitting apathy as
thick as Mobile's mucky mist,
its black smoke billowing into our breath
sunlight peeks through pillow of smog as
we whispered secrets into willowtrees on Western Avenue
and sucked on sugarfree caramels in mom's old mustang
the wind whipped through our hair,
her's a golden brown, mine black as night,
as she passed on the generational baton of work ethic
something worth sweating about
through odd jobs paying pocket change
and doing way too much for free
what is the price of passion?
perhaps its a smile from a stranger
or a hug from your husband
that makes this paradoxical palmtree paradise, home,
for at least right now.
many see only moving landscapes from motor vechicle windows,
man-made sunsets, on the road to anywhere but here,
but i play hide-and-seek with the night
yearning for moments wrapped up in blankets
where waking life mingles with dreams.
we started building bridges over borders
and mindmaps over the margins
where suddenly we reach the point of no return where the
movement's momentum toss us to and fro
like the ocean's endless tides.
the poetic potency of the message has left me reciting
from the deep recesses of my heart
scraping off sounds that many times do not budge,
forcing them out,
the gutteral glimpses of paying dues,
the sleep in just waking eyes,
and the opening of minds, and hearts, and souls.
thanks Tuesday Night Project for giving us womyn of color a place to speak, and not be silent.