To every thing there is a season, and a time to every purpose under the heaven:
A time to be born, and a time to die; a time to plant, and a time to pluck up that which is planted;
A time to kill, and a time to heal; a time to break down, and a time to build up;
A time to weep, and a time to laugh; a time to mourn, and a time to dance;
A time to cast away stones, and a time to gather stones together; a time to embrace, and a time to refrain from embracing;
A time to get, and a time to lose; a time to keep, and a time to cast away;
A time to rend, and a time to sew; a time to keep silence, and a time to speak;
A time to love, and a time to hate; a time of war, and a time of peace. - Ecc. 3

El Yunque, Puerto Rico


Saturday, October 23, 2010

inspired lately



it is strong coffee on saturday morning
with a caffeinated brain it is easier to talk shit about the neighbors
it is the crackle of the record player over salsa beats and motown hits
it is grandma
because if it doesn't kill you it only makes you stronger
and she's not dead yet
and maybe it's me
and maybe i am like my mother
and maybe the blood in my veins has seen more than my eyes and understood more than my heart and knowing so much, it grows angry at being stuck in my body and my present
and maybe i look so much like her that the spirits confuse us
and maybe she loves that
maybe legacy is a way to cheat death and death is mad
maybe death claimed her and i have to believe it was to save her from something worse
maybe death is much more gracious than she seems

but sometimes it was worse
sometimes it was blood-crusted corners of mouths
and sterilized tubes
sometimes life is hospital
gowns and hospital beds
gauze and drip bags
sometimes it was a mask between lips and skin
and maybe spirits still mistake me for her
even though there is no lump in my breast
and my body has not lost nor borne any children
but that's not what spirits see when they look at you

because my thick thighs and unruly curls are only part of my mother's legacy
spirit eyes see the burnt orange of our strong will
the sunflower yellow of our positive minds
the dusty knuckle-brown of hard work
we are autumn souls
hardening soil
covered with fallen leaves
awaiting rebirth