undulating rows
of sea island or maybe pima
rising and
falling in tides of dowdy white
they wait…
squinting ,
I wade inside embarrassed,
like an awkward
traveler to an exotic shore
seeking to
trade nothing for something
I snake…
between the
stalks that seek to swallow my
trespasses…My
breath--held in expectation of
sights and
sounds and smells feeling so new to me
yet so
familiar…
I am aching
in my need to know them for who they are:
not who they
pretend to be with upturned white faces
occasionally
nodding in approval but more often just staring
at me like
the foreigner I am…
they cut me?
bleeding
into their dead sea souls
leaving
small dropped traces of myself: unrecognizable
in mirrored
silence…until the crows caw me back...
slave to my
words
to my work
to my
thoughts
to my hands
I promclaim
myself…
A writer.
