I almost stopped believing in the ocean.
Imagine that. I almost stopped believing
in the music of such massive natural splendor.
I had lost sight of it, lost sight of hope
because innocent people were killed
by people in masks, hiding their faces,
their shame parading as providence,
their weakness posing as policy.
But then, I remembered the tides.
I was restored by the courage of poets
whose songs sounded like ocean waves
guided by the moon. Even now, there is music.
Children laughing on the swings, a student
learning the saxophone, a woman reading
her rough draft by the lake, a father whistling
a love song in his native language.
Courage is from the Latin word  cor,
which means heart, which means we are a heart of poets.
As in, take courage, take heart. As in, the widow
was grateful for your encouragement, your giving heart.
As in, the heart of your convictions.
What I mean is: we are made of love
and therefore larger than their terror.
As a great poet said, they can cut back all of the flowers,
but they cannot hold back spring.
We are a massive natural splendor, too.
In the end, all we are is love and love and love.
In the end, the ocean and the music might save us.
Meet me at the beach. Bring your light.
Bring your songs. I’ll wait for you.

with grievance’s command.

I am the daughter she trains
to translate lightning.

I am the half-deaf child she assigned
to tone-deaf judges.

I am the girl
riding shot-gun to iron.

I am birthing feet first
with no mid-wife to catch.

I sprint, high-jump,
and fist-fight in her defense. 

I am a dialect
born inside her quietude.

I susurrate incantations
transcribing her rivered idioms.

She is rivered remembering,
and I am her subpoenas.

                                                you think I’m kind on the daily
                                                —and my healing
                                                always soft
                   you don’t see me 
                                                beat to the ground 
                                                the Forehead Man 
                                                & his Mouse-God friend—how 
                                                I bonked the lights out 
           from their faces til one 
                          had no teeth 
                     and the other—
                                                only a mouth 
                                                stuffed full of them—
           across this white field
                                                I use my own Pointy thing
                                                Stabbing—after all is always 
                                                Personal
     you see—they did not see 
                my Rage coming—
                                                said they wanted me
                                                to go Home—Go back
                                                their jaws cajoled— 
                                   Go back 
                                                to where you’re from-from
                                         & so 
                      they saw me Go
                                                & Go
                                                —with each blue 
                                                wide-eyed Stab— 
                               and Stab—
                           into the bone 
                    & mush of them—
                                                Gone—Home—
                   Home to my Rage
                                                and they—such slabs 
                                                of meat—
                                                                       Stayed