(Reckoning For A Childhood Revolutionary)
When we were children we licked skinned knees
and held our hands above our heads as we ran
-like our palms had eyes and making a fist was just blinking.
We wrote algorithms for climbing trees and grew
legs like bicycle engines. Stillness wasn't something
we thought about very often
as we wove the city through our fingers,
holding it hostage for new books
and foreign swears we were too scared to use.
We knew the train tracks and the meandering paths
of my grandmother's crick better than our own anatomy.
And as our barefoot asphalt-blistered feet sank into it's mud,
our bodies became irrelevant.
We were river beasts.
And the wheat fields were our war grounds
as the sun-dried silt chipped off our skin
like the shedding of an exoskeleton.
Back then you spoke like your tongue had never heard of apathy,
I listened like it's language was dependent on my ears and
together we carved our words onto corn stalks
so they could grow bigger than us
-because the fields were the biggest thing we knew.
We imagined harvest as the days of our linguistic reckoning
when our words would be cut down
and distributed like edible enlightenment.
Illusions of power wound around our minds like a
second set of muscles that
found gravity irrelevant and negligible
against the infinite grasp of our hands that
we held in the air as we ran,
proof that we knew how to reach beyond ourselves.
(Author's Note: In case you don't know: Crick is another word for creek. It's a Midwest thing.)
(Last Edit: 3.16.08)