You left the dust of Earth upon my lips,
O now there’s presence for symbiosis.
Am I such descendant of the once rollers of grain,
bakers of bread, ‘round the fire,
on the edge of the known frontier,
purple skies across Siberia,
or French country-woman on her way
with hair-locks of barley glare?
Was she? . . . the dust?
Now I can write the Book of Woman
from this tasting of the Woman
who had learned the dance of Indo-Europa
in her genetic code,
and it shown about from eye to hips
and smile, like coastal ships cutting waves,
for a night of wine and heavy sleep,
which welcomed me from such a distant journey,
emblazoned with star dust.
So long in my flight
that I should disremember the face of my mother
and take it as this shroud of golden protein
that shelters the forgotten,
but now remembered wind before me.
To question the context of these breaths, here now,
is the reason that man shall go on his quest,
for 15,000 years, at least.
pleading, “why, it is love”
“why, we did not understand it”,
and dying unloved,
counting each second to its next millisecond.
Millennia turned millennia
while opportunity for love passed them by.
But, their cities got bigger,
the sky ashen,
the children older faster,
and quicken to the unloved –
the wasteful death of lives spent consuming products.
“Ellie Greenleaf Martin, 2017-2129”,
what are these stark lines etched upon stone,
wedges, angled in marble
which meant some sort of syntax
and even I, now on my supposed home,
shall not even understand
that perfect Roman alphabet,
simply unjust to the Barbarians
and their bar-bar phonetics.
After such long absence,
it’s naivety I bring to share with my lover.
What has blown away my memory?
. . . her face?
So, here I go again –
to start life on Earth, 11,033 C.E.
Where the grass has grown again
and Federal buildings decay,
I learn to love.
for greeting me from six thousand year sleep.
You have slept in carbon and waited for me,
the children died in the early 22nd century, I remember.
The planet quit whispering,
I do not understand why humans always yelled.
I was in love once.
committed myself to late night kidney failures,
something in my blood,
dancing between my cells,
like reveries with lace umbrellas,
the soft pink sun of English gardens,
Shall I wear powder on my face?
I lived in the streets of the Kama-Sutra,
walked over stones where the prostitutes resided,
felt sorry for them,
pitied them from the middle class eyes I had then,
felt sorry for myself.
Bless the whores,
thought of them, “more important than religion,
thence to give each man his god”,
for the exchange of pearly nickels
through a worker’s hands,
fleeing the tormented thighs of his wife,
who both know, and sit at home wondering,
“have we really grown this old?”
Before I grew old,
I pledged myself to live out the scenes
I had envisioned with you.
Years of the sun, the crusty bread sun,
that made me feel like a rusty loaf of bread
waiting to be painted,
and years of those late nights,
in a country where I knew no one,
and when I left, knew no one.
stained by the sea,
stained by the sky – stained by stucco.
Stumbled over the language.
Smiled at people
standing under light blue color studies,
corroded smiles of salt smells.
Ate fruit to eat your body,
raised on biblical notions.
Sweat ‘til I would sleep,
and woke up 20 years out of love,
only to find myself naked
with chemical dreams.
Sparkling bottled water, the citrus kiss of a city
built above a Roman port
littered with busted pottery
on the ocean’s floor,
. . . are you waiting to be painted?
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