right after that woman made that racist comment in the diversity
workshop
that went unattended about not being someone whose family
had gotten here
by crossing a river, a friend and I raced, ran full out to
catch up
to the group getting to the boats for a sunset cruise of the
canal. we
lunge with bags hefted and jettison all dec(orum) as we
vault bionic
down the convention maze and I hear the duhduhduh of jamie
summers as
we dodge left and lap right and leap onto the escalator,
panting like dogs for our one last jump.
little did we know we didn’t need to race
for our lives (this time), though for us, whose ancestors
crossed on boats
unwilling, shackled; for those whose ancestors crossed desperate
or forced out;
and for those displaced and slaughtered by ancestors who came
on boats;
we knew instantly how to run as if our lives depended
on it. we are a species crouched on the brink, the future
threatened to break, and we summon our strength, hurdle
thump,
hurdle thump, hurdle thump. the waters we hurry to cross
are invisible: the deep, stained structures of ownership,
denial, dominion.
what will the stories be, and the skills and cultures, ten
lines down,
200 years from now? i hope it’s not the waters of the milky
way
they cross, infecting other places. in the north american canals
of willingness, let the lapping waters soften us. it’s what
we don’t take
that matters. what we put down. here at the brink. the chasm,
the ridge
the cliff, the cleft, the jump-off, the bridge. like fools leaping
off. or over. let our magic bags on a stick be light. filled
with autumn leaves
of leaving, and seeds, magic beans, for saving. launching into
the cool waters
willingly, this time, and for joy at how water teaches
presence, teaches
that sky and land are one, mirrored partners in beauty, this
cloud, this water, this land
without gizmos or plugging in, we are part of the river of
life running through.
let us be this clear, there is no where at all to go. water
teaches:
we are right here. water: river, ocean, giver generous. quivering
sun and moon,
giving these back. flexible fabric of connection. slaking thirst
and making life.
at the verge of these inner crossings, we lay down
the need to flee in fear either from or toward some
migration to somewhere
else. we no longer know whether our children’s children
of all species will survive. we know some will make it through.
we have the canny craft of those who came before. the
whisper
wisdom of those who are to come. we lift up a handful of
leaves
and crinkle them into duff. the trees have already
contracted the green
the chloroplasts, and hunkered off. make your choices. here in
the winter
of planetary life, we contract, saving what matters
which is not something
that can be
plugged in.
