In the drum of history, a soul goes ballistic,
listening to desire; a cage for a feeling, a gut for silence, excellence the
best of what she believes. I was tribal, caught in celebrity, willing
unwittingly—quick to silver, unmanaged, streaming as we soar—the pain on
exhaustion, surging into waves, the sky singing as it dreams. Like muskrat
grime, silence wailing chants, severed and torn asunder—the goodness of
memories, sweet and sour candy, to have adored where love wasn’t tolerated.
Many drums, sexual pearls, I have said little—and worshiped in vain, the color
of her horizon, made in underestimation. (To see suffering, to touch humanity,
a drum deeper into humility); another, as dying, another pleat, trying to
remove the curtain. Sore and tribal—those with magic, to have ached for her
century. A tear to fall the grave to speak, essence reframed, treasures at war,
something controlling man. Onyx and topaz—beauty in its anger, cutting skies. The
vex of excitement, a thin edging, lost in degrees, and longing for song.
