what do we have to say for ourselves
with all those beautiful
tongues
children, inherited
dreams and very little
space to call home
what do we have
behind us/across
the sea/across town/down south
in our minds like
an ache or a weight/like a compass
as we go to work/to
school/to the parade
the victory celebrations/the
wakes/the voting booths
what do we do to remember
a fishing village/vegetables
pulled from the garden
a patch of land
near a cliff
rocks, granite,
the coolness of marble
fences, jettys,
the four walls of an abandoned cottage
the barriers that forced us to leave where we came from
that brought us
here because someone else
came first, scooped
out canals
told us life was
good but hard
the air thick, the
water sweet
said
that if you just look
face
the water, listen to the rumblings
from
the street, close your eyes
you
have not left home at all
what would we not give
up about such a
cinderella slipper of land
this ironbound,
the qualities of stone
that show in our
faces, gold
in our hearts, the
paths that have been made
straight/made into
bridges/that lead out of town
made routes in and
out of our own stories
smooth/possible//crowded/rich
what have we found
about making our
way that was not taught to us
that was tickled
out of conversation
over the back fence,
that first generation
rock solid belief
that the next of us
will by God have
it
easier/have a chance/have
opportunity/have the choice
to not need to work
with calloused hands
lead dust and twelve
hour shifts
our
children, our grandchildren
the
generations in our care
will have more/to
give back/to figure out/to keep together
what have we done/what do we do today
about ache, loneliness
or loss
the manipulations
of time, geography, politics
even our own poor
and miserable
attempts to meet
our obligations, balance our desires
sit with ambivalence
, until we can listen with a joining
of our senses, the
strains of imagination or compassion
what do we hear
what have we heard,
what feels
like an echo/like
a second chance/like the instructions of our grandmother
like a half-remembered
dream/like the stick of a pin into memory
or conscience. when
we walk
there is the brick
city sound of not just/not yet/not ready to pass along
and it pulls us/together/pulls
us up
what do we have to look forward to say
to all of these
down neck voices
with their bright
and widely-opened
eyes, the tender
hopes that once crossed
oceans, stepped
over into this millennium
yes, with tender
hopes, the long memories
of past mercies
given here and the miracles
waiting to happen
carry it on
