Not so much the describing of the world, but a way of participating in it.'
'I alternate between great rage and a passion for justice – I don’t write poetry as art for arts sake, although I believe it is crucial to learn the craft — but what am I here for, if not to build an active, muscled, true peace?'
A Bell Buried Deep
Feasting on the aftertaste,
I weaken first,
rise, stand at the window –
my pale skin flushed in the North Carolina light.
The old wood planks moan,
the white bedspread ripples like new snow,
our white sheets are the color of white beneath white –
and you, your brown skin against the sheet,
our marriage the color of syrup.
I lift my eyes and am chastened
by the angry heartbreak this world can bring.
The treetops are tender green –
and what is the color green but everything washed clean,
even the tiny, blue stone cemetery
where my son remains…
does not rise even after this, his eleventh year.
He is blue in the ground, his light-blue bones,
the midnight cap of his hair, his infant smell –
a bell buried deep, where he was in me,
but does not release
pain! I do not forget
my periwinkle boy, my blue berry, my demon –
all his names in a world pulsing with names,
wild christenings in the air –
as the blue-green vein of my wrist beats,
the memory of him, our pale-boned boy,
drives me back to our bed
to touch you, his dark father,
with my grief full of tongues,
full with his name.