This week…

Sent loving wishes into the sea

released the heaviness            swirled torquoise white stone

Dear Dad, it’s been 6 years.      I hope the weight breathes.

On Thursday, March 12, I am performing with Ngoho and new friends at a Creative Writing Conference at the University of Montana, Missoula. The Racial Imaginary.

We are driving through Oregon desert straight past Idaho into Montana…

this love keeps moving from one state to another.

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February

There was nothing in February

except a New Year

wood sheep

slight and still

February escaped me as i knew it would

we kissed the red rose goodbye

sent the rose into the ocean

waves rocked

toes sunk into sand

i sang out

“i love you

don’t you ever forget”

before sunset

bright sun before pink and purple sky

we moved into flea infested space

more space

to roll into white bello fur

and finally

i said, “no”

i won’t stand and listen to the utterings of discrimation

mocking the loss of language

ridiculing the loss of love

please pass the phone to me next time

i won’t be there to listen to offensive off hand comments

i said, “no”

last summer: salt and vinegar

in your future

you will have a place to settle

in another life

this is all different.

i cannot see the trees swaying from the august breeze

or my shadow a reflection against the screen i am staring at

watching letters form words

not merely writing in a notebook.

the trees and the birds speak louder making it hard to concentrate on thoughts

there are many of us here

who sit or walk aimlessly throughout the day

with or without shirts

or obedient dogs.

there is a moment of fright:

when we can’t understand the name of languages

when all they want to do is jump rope

tie the other end to a tree and turn

turn turn.

i remember skipping jumping

a skill so useful and necessary

and now living in the brown house

with the hollow burnt end

the operation is far from over.

we want to settle in the aftermath.

i wonder when we will move forward to the next moment and

stand still in our blood.

there are so many watching walking

moving from one end to the other.

why are people circling?

what is the ritual of movement?

what is the ritual of falling through air

without wings

to glide?

there are moments when we fail to recognize our ancestors and there are moments when the stranger at the bench typing furiously turns around right when the dark girl of about 9 turns around and then slips her hand back into her father’s. although the brown-paper-bag girl didn’t see it she knows it happened.

you found a place to settle and then the dog hair began to accumulate inbetween the keys of the keyboard you so furiously type into.

i sit and think about how i probably will never make apple butter with my mom and hope that my daughter wants to someday make apple butter with me.

i don’t have a daughter.

i think of the cookies with toffee bits of dark chocolate salt and vinegar potato chips.

i stop typing so furiously and walk back to the car and wait.