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A Poet’s Love

November 26, 2009


Two men in me,
in the smoke
prowls a fearful man
who goes by another name, has another soul
with another mind—
what I feel he denies,
what I dream he undreams,
what I hope he despairs,
and what I love he despises—
every healing I experience
he infects with an addiction,
torments me with fears,
intimately loves then rejects me,
certain of my love, then disorientated,
I want it, he resists it,
suspended between commitment and promiscuity.

I need the river,
I need to run by the water,
it bends and blends me
into the darkness of black crow feathers,
where I listen to stones speak of our inseparable spirits.

I need to be by the river
where I can dream of being
hundreds of miles away,
toting my rucksack,
hiking sage trails,
across rocky slopes
in boots,
green cap, beige pants, blue sports t-top and red pullover.

My love for the river is rooted in what’s fallen and what’s transformed.

Seasons survive
beneath leaf-skin
where I cocoon my memories,
and am released a moth
in the afternoon
to float by a honeysuckle vine strung along the river trees.

The river and I see through each other’s skin,
behind the eyes into the tunnels of water-bone and rushing marrow
into an even wider sky than ours
a larger earth than where I run,
a broader river than where I pray.

(Text of the poem translated into Spanish)


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