October 18th
You stayed cold this morning,
holding still like a hunter
spying on these city streets,
which boiled with the bones
of the Shunned Children
as they shuffled in blue steps
to find a door that is not
locked and mocking them.
I brushed my hair
with shivering fingers
in the mirror
of the dawn's horizon moon
hanging onto the sky.
You let me go into the day,
where I walked and slept
until your high noon eyes
called me forward
to claim my flailing arms,
and somehow calm them.
I walked along ridges of your feet
until I came upon
the yellowed yucca who reaches
for the mouth of anyone who comes near,
so they can tell its story.
It said to me that memory
is the only way
to heat my skin
so it will sing the names
of all the bloodlines
crashing like waves in my past.
I listened to this drooping child
because I knew it was you
who were speaking through it.
As much as you've brought to me,
I still have much to ponder.
You changed your jacket
in the rooms of the soothsayers,
whose prayers to the
mountains of the east
are echoed as shooting fire.
You let your feet fall
the way the gods speak,
and mumbled that we should sit.
Sit and talk about the ways
of the Forgetful Children.
How we can add their songs
to the din that is collecting
around our teakettle campfire.
I will think on this,
and as my fingers burn
I will ask you tomorrow
if you are truly ready
to listen to the questions
of the ones who have lost
their teeth while trying to hear you.
Then we will decide
on the fate of the Helpless Ones,
who are our true concern.