a poem from a very old notebook
(If the jungle could write a poem, it would be this one.)
rise on me
scorch me
head to toe
push yellow fingers
through the millions of miles
to love me
come to me
sliding over my skin
and turn me
yellow, brown, red
i will sing for you
scream for you
howl at the moon
and dance
I graduated from Lancaster Mennonite High School many moons ago, so I must have passed my Mennonite History class. Did they not explain the difference between “ethnic” Mennonites (think Canada and the western portion of the USA) and “religious” Mennonites (of the pious Pennsylvania variety)? Or did I not get the memo? Most likely, even the teacher didn’t get it. I get it now.
I thought I had no flock, but I do have a flock. Imagine my surprise. And I am not even the strangest bird in it.
The best part of all, was seeing a picture of myself reflected back by those around me, that looks like my own image of me. The other 361 days of the year, I am a WIC certifier with a weird pastime: scribbling in notebooks. But this last weekend, for 4 consecutive days, I got to be a writer with a day-job. This, of course, is what I’ve secretly believed all along. I just didn’t know anyone else was convinced.
It’s almost enough to make a girl start humming 606.
Si es verdad
que en el cuerpo
humano,
cada célula se repone
en el trascurso de
siete años,
eres, entonces
un hombre nuevo–
y yo soy una mujer
diferente de
la que conociste
al atardecer
con el viento que soplaba
al mar.
Nuestros cuerpos,
hasta las células
cerebrales
donde viven las memorias
más secretas,
nunca se han conocido
el uno sin
el otro.
Hablando Sola / Talking to Myself 