Voices of Jamaica resonate in my head
while I rot away in the red snow.
The steel drum pumps my heart
while a single note is driven into my flesh until it is dull and I am raw, sitting in the negative sun
I keep an old green palm leaf in my new white palms. I miss the taste of the ocean
The heat of the black pavement is calling me
The hard brown grass is so comforting in the most uncomforting way
My friend with the dreads is gone
Mi amigo with the open toed sandals is traveling the world and my three sisters have gone their separate ways
O wind, rend open the heat,
cut apart the heat,
rend it to tatters.
Fruit cannot drop
through this thick air--
fruit cannot fall into heat
that presses up and blunts
the points of pears
and rounds the grapes.
Cut the heat--
plough through it,
turning it on either side
of your path.
Poem a day, day 12
Heat radiates through me.
the heat of summer
The heat of an unventilated apartment
The heat of passion
And I love it
And I hate it
The powerful burning
Intense and overwhelming
the strength of the heat excites me.
No release from it exhausts me.
But if I had to choose
I would choose the heat.
It stifles the mind
and intensifies the body
Enhancing every sensation
Making me aware of every part of me.
Rather overwhelming heat
Than cold death
Where sensation is drained
As your body goes numb.
In this heat I am truly in my body
I honour it as I search for relief
Trying to escape it and revel in it
At the same time
But it's ok
The heat will come again.
At first it was sort of like a dog lying next to the bed
My head was warm and without any covers I was
The pillow was damp, the breathless air would not
I tried to remember the cold, clear nights of stars
But I felt my tongue drying out in the stagnant air
So now, we live in the big heat bubbling like a
Everyday we feel it like a weight, like we might be
In Iowa, the corn is dying in July, no ears are
The frogs have burrowed back into the cracked mud
On the freeway, the cars shimmer without motion
On the baking hills, the anguished forests now
The rivers shrunken to dusty rocks, fish
When I cry to the angels at the end of all Roads
Praying for some relief, somewhere in the ashes
They forbid me with their living swords of fire