Ancient Herstory

Thru blood sunsets laid

on their backs, legs spread wide,

to the snapping sparks of the el train;

it speaks to me with her voice.

In the parade and phony pagentry of

Michigan Avenue, along the lakefront

in the public places;

it speaks with her voice.

The white-capped lake, wind whipped

trees & the endless debate of birds

& highschoolkids in the heat;

speak to me with her voice.

On this, the first bright day

this year, I am free

enough

to agree that she adulted me.

We, as two, cocooned; & then a

longlovely metamorphosis,

into a mercifully gentle,

almost imperceptible decline.

It was long, it

lasted forever.

We, as two, emerged into winter anew;

changed & uncomfortable,

unrecognizable & alien, grew into

new skins,

new abilities.

Today
I would not know her if I saw her.

The Chicago of Me

Flame-built n' cured

still smoking from celestial

atomic alignment;

poured thru layers of atmosphere

to here;

dragged clouds down with me

for my clothes, stained now

black with soot to match

my hair n' eyes. Earthly body

made manifest this way

skin kilned ceramic white

by the rubbing burn of air.

Pages n' pages left in my book

there is only friction n' gravity

to tug at clouds

while I pull n' work n' flame n' drift

all with equal purpose

n' justified ends.

That quiet voice that speaks to me

of the backs of buildings

tells me the stories

of the ones who leave running.

I stare at their backs, unconvinced.

I am not of the type to flee.

I am of the roots of the trees here

the bricks of houses are a trillion

metamorphed molecules of me.

I have no home,

but I contain multitudes.