"Wayside," A Weird Catastrophe Poem

                                                                   Wayside

                I will go back to the South
                as a prisoner

                back to the days when salt covered the earth
                and our children danced in barns,
                standing upon our own feet

                I will go back to flesh and bone,
                the weight of your words carrying me through the days,
                holding on just to let go,
                to see the almond eyes in a kind face and think of 
                the years ago poses for the camera,
                when we all felt the lines holding us entwined,
                back and back to historic bodies once forgotten
                but now incarnated with ink and arrows 
                and the dust of great cities razed to fertile land

                I will go back to mockingjay and brightburn,
                the bifurcating rail tracks that snuck through our homes and 
                breathed out clouds of steam and sullen want into the air,
                leaving lost derangement and Tasmanian daydreams

                the good company knocking on our door, 
                and the times when we knew that all we had to say to each other was 
                hello, haven’t we met before?
                I don’t think so, but it’s so good to see you again.

                we’ve both been hurt before, 
                and we know where our words will lead,
                but time reigns kingly over us so our only choice is
                left or right,
                yes or no,
                stalk still or in motion,
                to inhabit our remembered historic bodies
                or to stumble awkwardly with lonely muscles learning how to do this 
                great big mess from scratch

                I’d like to scale some high fences with you,
                find the perfect fruit tree,
                steal the ripe ones first,
                carry all the bounty that we can in our shirt pouches,
                and run away cackling with energy and devotion,
                knowing that we’ve gotten away with something 
                both criminal and divine,
                ready to bite into the teeming and dripping opportunity,
                to nourish and feast and share our past with our present,
                to light a world-ending sky and rejoice for those who came before us

                it is to here I will go

                not to go backwards or to catch a song,
                not to forget or to cast off our clothes

                but to remember and to pay respect,
                to feel the warmth of strange members
                and the care for the stories we’ve had to let go,

                so that we may say hello to each other, again,
                as if for the first time,
                and ask

                would you like to go back with me?