Curve of gunwales, pair of lips that skirt a kiss,
point into the wind, and cut through like a beautiful
smile cuts through a room of empty compliments;
try to keep up, you are tested on the crest of each wave,
the full mouth of your canoe sings into the storm,
you must propel both into the words of its song.
Walk with me.
Meet the wall.
The wall is the end.
Deep, dense,
charcoal melt into
rusted metal door black,
Roots are steps in soil. Steps to rise
upon. Steps attended by dark life, earth being
what roots must dig into. To bury these seeds
knowing they will rise again. To bury hands
in rich dirt knowing things will grow well here.
To bury one’s face in a bouquet of lilac without
allowing one blossom to touch your skin.
a fable
There once was a village of well fed cannibals. The area they lived in had lots of food for everyone, from fruit to fish in the streams, good roots, seeds and nuts, and people to hunt. Originally, there had been a lot of people in the area.
As I said, this village of cannibals was well fed. A time came when there weren’t many people left to hunt. If people did move in, they lived in forts, had weapons and acted very fierce whenever the cannibals visited.
Some of the cannibals were hurt by that attitude.
“You try to be friends and see what happens!”
“It’s as if they don’t want to be eaten! And I have this new recipe I can’t wait to try out!”
Now that there were no people left to eat, the cannibals started to feel hungry. That’s when it began.
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