The
Possum People
( for my cuz Beth)
because we made the skins
it was always under there
that
warm spot
to be had
they got lost
and put away
and spindled
in the heart
unearthing bodies
tongues and hair remembered
words were spoken
inside outside
unsaid resaid
cast in ink
electrons
repeated
along family grapevines
all but withered
hanging from a nail
on weather grey paling
fences
the knowing
what it meant
the letting go
no bird caught
without a fast step
away from what is safe
something somewhere
always dies
always dies
when every family lives
we sculpt we sculpt with everything
today
it started long ago
with adding names
the
sucker names
the sculptors of the nation
using us as clay the
dark brown skins
admixed with flour
mum taught us
always get the entoleted one
and
we would giggle thinking
toilet
darker shades of flour
crossed the minds of those gents
our little human slurry
took a hand in destiny
told lies
like all the rest
who could
why not
don’t say
the angry man was born
nowhere
that dark child
came right from the heart
of the nation
possum birth
flour life
flower fathered
centrifuged
we live inside our story
even though we think we don’t
it writes us
wields us
sends us children
made of skin
(the touch of skins revives them)
skins a diatribe
always present never far
from me
a long long way
from home
This is a marvelous and important poem, Kerri. Thank you.
ReplyDeleteThanks Rob, it was a while coming.
Delete"skins a diatriabe", perfectly spoken from inside the poem
ReplyDeleteThank you Efi, I went back and back and back on that!
DeleteWow, Kerri, I have tears in my eyes. What magical poem, needs saying it does.
ReplyDelete