For Ie, for asking that question
The son says, why write poems
No one reads? We are in the middle
Of a storm, its eye some kilometers
Away, unto the eastern part
Of our dreams where we will take root.
One raging wind and the stalk
Of a tree the poet planted years back
Comes to earth, away from the spaces
That do not know borders and land.
I write for myself, he says,
For healing and for naming
My wrath, virulent as virulent
Can be until healing comes.
My homeland has wounded
Me so, and life too, the lacerations
In the mind refusing to let go
Of memories of blood and gore
The roads filled with the tears
Of my people, bodies too,
Lying cold on pavements
Or what passes for home
In shanties animals do not dare go.
Tell me if there is a poem
In all these, the images
Haunting me so.
He has his son's silence,
And the storm comes one more time,
Secretly preying on their words,
Ripping apart what conversation they can have.
June 25, 2011/