Animal Dressed in the Skin of Your Silence
I am permitted to know only the garden,
the pond, a mesh of fish silvering downstream.
Fingers pressed in mud, in this world I imagine
my dead cousins dancing in a landscape
of lavas and basalts, glowing stone
from the world’s heart. I stare into
the sixteen petals of the Daphne.
In this world, I bathe only
in a porcelain tub, the pipes
clogged with wet earth, water filtered
from a landscape of furious heat.
I imagine I can imagine cousins.
The water rises. The steam rises.
Will I ever stop being angry
for never hearing my family’s language?
In every city,
every spit-shined field,
I hear the violet, ancient noise
of my family’s silence. The silence
shimmers. It is forged the way Earth’s magma
is made into glimmering rock.
This rock will furnish
the future’s room.