Hasn’t enough been said?
Words pile up like so much trash.
And more line up.
Pulling out old corpses stored in the mud,
pulling them onto the beach
where the tide can pull them out to sea
and little fish with mighty jaws may grind them up
so they become sand and coral and butterflies
and coconut trees.
The earth cannot breathe.
Its body is clogged
by too many dead things not released,
not released to go back to earth.
I must do this until I can clear a space
that is not mine, not anyone’s
I must clear a space
where the desires of no one lie embedded.
A bit of earth, free.
And I can breathe again.
Clearing space that new stories can be written.
Written with the knowledge gained over
ages and stored in our bones.
Not like old dead photos
in boxes under the stairs,
but mute songs waiting for the noise to die
so they can be heard.
Songs waiting to connect with other songs,
waiting in other bones.
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