Hands carry burdens
that are meant for more than one
person to handle.

And I gave my First Snowglobe to them.
…And When I had given that to them, I had told him to give me a gift in return that may have more to itself than just simple life.  

“Inahah oona sept amni kquestal”.

Yet I had no other thing to give, this broken soul, beyond more than just flesh, I was naught. And so she had nothing more to me than that of the great overtone, the great silence of the earth, of space, her arms stretching invisible to hold our gaze to her innumerable foreign light show and state--

Perhaps there is another lover of soul somewhere within?

And he said simply to me, that there is someplace for me to be, someone for me to see-- that there was innumerable and inexplicable, incalculable and incomprehensible, powerful and overwhelming deterministic fate that guides my eyes, lets me chose without choosing, think without thinking, know without knowing.

And he knew—and she knew—and they knew with a knowing that I can never know; true and whole and unspoken, I can only dream to describe.

"We made the world for us, for you."

And I felt their love radiate that ferrous heart, steeled with centuries of pain and removal, heated by the ***** of her truth and guided by the loving, tender hand of his true brilliance that blinded and pleasured my aching eyes.

The entire web of the cosmos, in my eyes, dreaming and thinking that maybe I’d be back there one day, whole, float-- bool and cruelty of world inconsequential within the vast expanse of everything—

A powerful, emanative, restorative code of the universe that held itself no information but all, no hate but the misidentified ache of longing love, differed from the soul of the grinding earth—so far away from god through sickly skin and broken bone that without expanding into time and vaporizing into pure light, these feelings which we can never know.

Each day I carry things that I wish I could drop.
Each day the burden of the things that I carry crush me into submission.
I feel alone and lost each day; it’s like I’m gasping for air and holding onto a fragment of hope.
Each day I carry something new and it piles on until it will ultimately lead to my demise.
The burden of solitude, guilt, a necklace, a fragment of hope.
Each item or emotion that I carry holds a piece of me.
I can’t dare part with these things it would tear my very existence apart.

My mother once said that each day I walk into the world, someone would try to hurt me.
It was a cold night and my mother was at the kitchen table holding something. My birthday was fast approaching, and somehow I knew that whatever was in my mother's curled fist was my gift.
She whispered my name, and I walked in, anxious and excited.
Her hands were soft in the kitchen light.
She looked tired and worried.
I walked to her and held her hands.
They were small in size and frail to touch.
A swift rain was tapping on the windows, begging to be let in.
In a delicate movement, she dropped a sea of silver into my hands.
When my eyes finally fixed on the object, it was a necklace that had a treble clef on it.
I felt the cool silver in my hand and looked up at her.
She held my gaze with her eyes and whispered to me.
She told me that as long as I had that necklace, I would never be alone.
I carry it with me but never wear it in fear of it getting damaged.

When walking down a street alone, a person hears things that they never thought they would.
I hear life blooming and blossoming with emotions of love and happiness.
But each day I carry something different.
My emotions are dark, and I am unable to change them.
They are a black hole ******* in any ounce of happiness that I have.
I carry the weight of not fitting in anywhere; I carry the blood of the cuts that harsh reality has laid upon my body.
The world has slammed me to the ground, and I carry the bruises that life has placed on my heart.
Each time I try to get up, the burden of all the things that I carry becomes crushing.
I feel useless and alone; I doubt that the things I carry will ever go away.
I just have to hope and pray.
The only way to forget the emotional trauma that I’ve been through is to let everything go,
but I'm not strong enough to say goodbye,
nor am I strong enough to keep holding on.    

There are moments in life that stay with us even when things seem rough.
I remember when I was younger, and the world seemed like a huge place. Everything just felt smaller at grandma’s house.
I would go over there everyday and help her clean her house and arrange cans of food by their expiration date.
We would laugh and sing together, she would hold me close to her chest, and I would hear her heartbeat in her chest.
The sound of life pulsed through her, until it didn’t.
My grandmas funeral was on a very hot summer day, but I had never felt colder.  The vision of seeing her casket being lowered into the ground made my heart twist in my chest.
I was alone in that moment, and it will always stick with me.
The memories of life and death remind me of how little time we really have on this earth.
Now I live each day as if it was my last.
I carry the memory of time that pressures me to be more and do more before my time runs out.
When I look at all the things that I carry I realize that being human is one of the hardest things to do.
We have to carry the burdens of life, things to keep us from going down, and the hopes and dreams to do better.
The things I carry each day are a reminder of how the world has shaped my personality.
I would never be able to part with the things I carry because, ultimately they are the things that make me myself.

We travel carrying our words.
We arrive at the ocean.
With our words we are able to speak
of the sounds of thunderous waves.
We speak of how majestic it is,
of the ocean power that gifts us songs.
We sing of our respect
and call it our relative.

Translated into English from O’odham by the poet.

’U’a g T-ñi’okı˘

T-ñi’okı˘ ’att ’an o ’u’akc o hihi
Am ka:ck wui dada.
S-ap ‘am o ’a: mo has ma:s g kiod.
mat ’am ’ed.a betank ’i-gei.
’Am o ’a: mo he’es ’i-ge’ej,
mo hascu wud.  i:da gewkdagaj
mac ’ab amjed.  behě g ñe’i.
Hemhoa s-ap ‘am o ’a: mac si has elid, mo d.  ’i:mig.

there’s a few things I carry
despite not having a need
tiny things hidden in my pack
but they don’t bother me

a fossilized shark tooth is my favorite
given to me by a child

next is four different lipsticks
all roughly the same shade

a rock shaped like a triangle
I found on the bay

two pairs of gloves
one brown, one black

a limited edition Dum-dum pop
picked up from my bank

a button from my jacket
I still need to fix

three pens
one black, two blue

still the most useless thing I carry
is my love for you

Soft, gentle, like one of the fluffy clouds of the purest heaven above,
Free of all sin, of all filth of this earth and of what a demon holds in his desire or temptation within his wicked heart of devilish instinct,
While they carry you to your last judgement they glance at you,
Seemingly so dreamlike that it must be like a legendary illusion of an infinite being, cast upon you to grant you a splendid slumbering,
You will never be able to go back again, it has been decided that it should be this way, depart now my little soul, recieve your justice,
Recall your previous self, as these angels stare at you with roaming might, spreading their wings to appear more light, carefree and pure,
See into the dreams you saught to escape, now all agony, all sin and pride, envy and majesty are burnt away to rot within their light,
The luminousity coming from these fluttering wings, is so smooth it would likely make the worldly life appear to be in a darker shade,
Tirelessly, they are free from all needs, with no need for deep sleep,
Even if you tried you would be swept away by their sheer power,
These Angels had waited to carry you; until the moment you die!
When you reach your final destination, darkness or light will be what you may recieve, or may these wings which seem to be invaluable,
Be pure, then you are worthy of carrying angel wings.

~ Umi

I painted the pollution in the sky with my own blood
I was proud
So I sat below it, as it dripped back down
Puddle by puddle
I can see what it was that pain passed on
The pollution of my own wreckage
Thick, it choked my breath
I stress over my own twisted toxins
Carrying the weight of me
On my back

Back home.