Aracelis Girmay

[from Aracelis Girmay's Kingdom Animalia, BOA, 2011]

& When We Woke

It rained all night. It did not rain.

I strapped my life to a buoy — & sent it out.

& was hoping for a city whose citizens sing

from their windows or rooftops,

about the beauty of their children

& their children’s eyes, & the color of the fields

when it is dusk. & was hoping for a city

as free as the rain, whose people roam

wherever they want, free as any real, free thing is free.

Joyful. Green. & was hoping

for a city of 100 old women whose bones

are thick & big in their worker hands

beautiful as old doors. & when we woke,

dear reader, we’d landed in a city of 100 old women

telling their daughters things. & when we turned

to walk away, because we did not think we were citizens

of this strange & holy place, you & I, the hundred old

women said, No, No! You are one of us! We are your

mothers! You! You! Too! Come & listen to our secrets.

We are telling every person with a face!

& they stood us in a line facing the sea,

(because that is the direction we came from)

& behind us there was another line of women

& another, & we sang songs. & we filled the songs

with our mothers’ names. & we filled the songs

with trees for our mothers to stand under,

& good water for our mothers to drink. & we filled

the songs with beds for our mothers to lay down in

& rest. We filled the songs with rest. & good food

for our mothers to eat. We made them a place

in our singing, & we faced the sea.

We are still making them a place

in our singing. Do you understand?

We make them a place where they can walk freely,

untouched by knives or the police who patrol

the borders of countries like little & fake hatred-gods

who patrol the land though the land says, I go on

& on, so far, you lose your eye on me.

We make our mothers a place in our singing & our place

does not have a flag or, even, one language.

Do you understand? We sing like this for days

until our throats are torn with singing. Do you understand?

We must build houses for our mothers in our poems. I am not sure,

but think. This is my wisest song.

Aracelis Girmay