in my village we have this saying, that
“we answer the earth with our being.”
that being all of this
all of us
this being that
if you’re just going to forget everything
at least remember that today it asked,
“what does a lover’s hands create?”
and our father, absent as he is, silent as he is
pokes the embers of our dying fires with a stick
trying to get a little more heat out of them
to warm the clay
and our mother rubs her belly and says,
“a home safe enough to be born into silly.”
and our cousin inspects our hands before we eat
making sure they’ve been cleansed
of mud by water
and the water tumbles down into the streams,
into the rivers, the lakes, and the oceans,
making sure a part of us has travelled the world
even if we don’t
and the moon reflects on the waters, listening
staying silent as all the pieces of us break
down into nothing through constant movement
as always
and the grass rustles in the wind
bringing the faintest scent of salt water and us with it
to a place that only knows of palm trees
and a palm tree’s shadow extends to cover us
from the sun’s accusations as the day gets long
and an ackee falls off a tree after having ripened
and the fruit’s seeds embrace the earth after a while
and the seeds grow into trees
and their branches grow
and our father, the father, breaks them
to give us a little heat in the night
to warm the clay
and the fire that was made was creation
is creation, for it still burns
and the weak mud realizes that as it hardens
it is difficult to live without surviving humiliation
without hardening
and so it does
maybe this is what creation was all along
our father, silent as he is, speaking with his hands
that when you gain something you lose something
that the mud loses its innocence the moment it embraces the fire
beautiful though the light’s warmth is after a while
the mud, now clay, will always wonder, which is better
its former innocence or the hard life it’s living now
maybe this is what creation was all along
our mother, smiling as she does, as she creates life within her
as we pester her with questions about who created life
maybe this is what creation was all along
our cousin bearing our hands while pointing to water
showing us the answer to all
“that is us”
too late do we realize that
we are pools of water
and as the rain continues we get deeper with age
until we realize that the leaves that land on us
never quite disturb us as they used to
when we were much shallower
and the moon reflects on us, listening
and the grass rustles with the wind
and the trees bear fruit
and the earth too listens
the sounds of our movements
from rivers to oceans
imprinting into the lines of its many palms
darkening them
as it remembers our being forever