Migration as a Swallow


We are one at soliped
of love and bend,
  of low and sliver
In roar of distance,
knuckle lock existence
tears of a small proud child
a woman into womb
torn to open wound
remembering his eyes
his laugh, his soft song
longing of never land
goodbyes,
to swollen hot earth
  to the dry of my eyes
birds flying young
to make a Swallow
branch here
in the old songs
of the south.