I
read “An American Sunrise” by Joy Harjo—it gave life to this poem.
We
have lived the anthology right here in America. We
have
slept in the mansard, reading landmarks, headed
to
the graffiti yard. We live absent of our souls, or located,
compelled,
nay, without another recourse, sipping firewater.
Sweet
sounds, jazz, tribal Native longings, aches, ashes
speaking
about change, familiarity in suffering, pat on
wrists,
asked to go home; tarsier eyes filled with roses,
blood
dyed carpets, slain sheep. Morning dewdrops,
upon
dehydrated faces, mouthing for saliva. We have
lived
sameness, treating each other with alienation, pain
has
become personal, entitlements, carrying firebricks. The
jukebox
is silent, the pool-stick carries violence, liquor
makes
most persons mean. Healing is with careful axes
hacking
away at pillars, if never to abort sunrise freedom.
