I watched you walking up out of that hole

All day it had been raining
in that field in Southern Italy

rain beating down making puddles in the mud
hissing down on rocks from a sky enraged

I waited and was patient
finally you emerged and were immediately soaked

you stared at me without love in your large eyes
that were filled with black sex and white powder

but this is what I expected when I embraced you
Your firm little breasts against my amplitude

Get in the car I said
and then it was spring

All morning my daughter pleading, outside

outside. By noon I kneel to button her

coat, tie the scarf to keep her hood in place.

This is her first snow so she strains against

the ritual, spooked silent then whining,

restless under each buffeting layer,

uncertain how to settle into this

leashing. I manage at last to tunnel

her hands into mittens and she barks and

won’t stop barking, her hands suddenly paws.

She’s reduced to another state, barking

all day in these restraints. For days after

she howls into her hands, the only way

she knows now to tell me how she wants out.

I have eaten

the plums

that were in

the icebox

and which

you were probably

saving

for breakfast

Forgive me

they were delicious

so sweet

and so cold

who will be the messenger of this land

count its veins

speak through the veins

translate the language of water

navigate the heels of lineage

who will carry this land in parcels

paper, linen, burlap

who will weep when it bleeds

and hardens

forgets to birth itself

who will be the messenger of this land

wrapping its stories carefully

in patois of creole, irish,

gullah, twe, tuscarora

stripping its trees for tea

and pleasure

who will help this land to

remember its birthdays, baptisms

weddings, funerals, its rituals

denials, disappointments

and sacrifices

who will be the messengers

of this land

harvesting its truths

bearing unleavened bread

burying mutilated crops beneath

its breasts

who will remember

to unbury the unborn seeds

that arrived

in captivity

shackled, folded,

bent, layered in its

bowels

we are their messengers

with singing hoes

and dancing plows

with fingers that snap

beans, arms that

raise corn, feet that

cover the dew falling from

okra, beans, tomatoes

we are these messengers

whose ears alone choose

which spices

whose eyes alone name

basil, nutmeg, fennel, ginger,

cardamom, sassafras

whose tongues alone carry

hemlock, blood root, valerian,

damiana, st. john’s wort

these roots that contain

its pleasures its languages its secrets

we are the messengers

new messengers

arriving as mutations of ourselves

we are these messengers

blue breath

red hands

singing a tree into dance