O D E S
To whom do you ode?
What they call
SUMMER
Fever after fever
stifling breaths and
electrocuted mobility
routines that take days
open pores, soaked
ideas wafting up from a pavement covered
volcano
a summer of sleep and strange dreams
drifting between wine and heat
wave after wave of finding and losing
my identity
of a wide-eyed presence and a closed eyed past
any kind of conditioned air
from within only
J U L I A N
We went to visit Julian in the hospital
up by Diego de Leon, around the corner from Salamanca,
Around the corner from the end of autumn
We brought him flowers
from the woman with
the dark face
“a good business” we said
in agreement
and we were happy because we thought walking into a hospital
empty handed
was bad
more so because our intentions of being
at this hospital were perhaps
bad
We half ran through the hallways
to get to his room
keeping straight faces
as to not be those americans
Was he asleep?
Could we knock?
Could we call?
They don’t like phones in hospitals
Once in,
I fooled around with things in his hospital room
And laid on the empty bed next to him
Used the awful bathroom
He invited us to his annual French Christmas dinner
Said who we should talk to and who we shouldn’t
Got introduced to his mother
Tried to speak French
Showed off the flowers we bought
And we left
And we felt good about ourselves
And then we stopped talking to you
(because really, we all have to stop pretending that we’re all great friends)
ODE TO AMERICA
Is this the only homage we pay?
I don’t see them in the audience
Mirrored rooms and platforms
The native wingspan, the spirit of our people
I want to re-dance our history
How much change do you believe in?
ODE TO THY DREAM
Mina this must have been you
A face I haven’t seen in three years
You and your dream came to give me
My most remembered dream
Which now escapes my memory
Native in nature
All the colors, except soft and dulled
A river
Maybe it was you, Arundhati Roy
Who gave it to me
The intricacy of your skirt weaving the details
Down the river
Children upon children
Just a few elders, saving them, carrying
Them across long wooden boats
Mina, you cried
Beautiful of course
Behind the veil you made yourself put on
I tried to comfort you
ODE TO MY FATHER’S MOTHER
How will it go with you?
Asking you things you’ve never been asked before
How much will it cost you to
Unearth
That in which you sent into your
Oblivion
Or have you really just
Forgotten