First Gulf War


These people are plants
and this season is winter
Numbness, frostbite, white-out
bites dull upon them
all their relations bear it
or suffer
starve or sleep and wait
The two-leggeds are waiting
for their leaders to choose
a 48-hour deadline they say
hangs over the earth
below stalks and trunks in the underground
anarchic hearts beat
strong as oak roots
spirits race wild & willful
lit red & purple & urgent
or calm like this creek beneath ice.

A long season
a generation of gestation
of hoarding & hibernation
somnambulant dispassionate amnesiac spectation
our leaders are worse
their weapons more clever
and evil than ever
but remember the strength of the underground.

The clouds are changing their shapes as we wait
we can wait
So long as some throb, howl & rush
the furry ones
the liquid ones
beneath miles of jet trails
and computer pixels
So long as some 2-leggeds
call out to others
send writings and pictures
from the dug-in places
send proof of endurance
from caves and nests
and womyn’s lands
We will come together
in ways they can’t control.

On this land is peace
trees shake me to my knees
in snow drifts
On this land
I ramble up hills through dropped skies
sun-spiced pine needles
with six dogs
worshipping, I walk.

War is outside, it’s begun
they say
flags appear on streets
and yellow ribbons
there are interviews, films
but I am not war
I am safe here in granite
windy womb
caught in calm with birds
And from that distant mesa
to these pinion shadows
is not war.

By day three, the people
used to fighter jets roaring off
into the night on tv
crowd into santa fe plaza
speaking, chanting, facing off
this mystery war
this known-in-the-bones war
this country’s always been at war
We are meant to be mesmerized
by shock and patriotism
by the white glare of winter
weight of ice like a lid upon us
to swallow their data cold
and how do we know any of this
four-fingered truth
spewed by strangers paid to lie?
Like we know anything anymore.

In scarcity mode we roll naked
through razor canyons of cause and effect
a winter world of frozen minds
will thaw
iced eyes will un-blind
to see hands pulling strings
from Christendom to the Muslim center.

There’s no tv’s here
no wires
just this night sky
this mystery
Creek runs free of ice
silver silk in slices
of golden light
Water bows and stair-steps
past ponderosa queens
and sky-streaming cottonwoods
Grandmother is feeding the underground
love thunders under the ice
celebrates every moment of darkness.

In cities and towns
a new generation dances
into the maw again
people are burning flags
blocking traffic
taking bridges, embassies
They’re marching for peace
again and still
all over the world
but won’t ever see themselves
there on tv.

The season is changing
we stand on icy pavement
five days into the war
creek flowing in the mountains
water racing under womyns’ feet
Beneath the ice are no leaders
no liars
A golden goddess sun will melt the lid
and bend the sky
and we’ll be like bubbles
beneath it all
winding ever round the rock heart
of earth
We will be gone but
present in the underground
dancing like trees we have known
to the holy green memory
of spring.

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