Remember the sky that you were born under,
know each of the star's stories.
Remember the moon, know who she is.
Remember the sun's birth at dawn, that is the
strongest point of time. Remember sundown
and the giving away to night.
Remember your birth, how your mother struggled
to give you form and breath. You are evidence of
her life, and her mother's, and hers.
Remember your father. He is your life, also.
Remember the earth whose skin you are:
red earth, black earth, yellow earth, white earth
brown earth, we are earth.
Remember the plants, trees, animal life who all have their
tribes, their families, their histories, too. Talk to them,
listen to them. They are alive poems.
Remember the wind. Remember her voice. She knows the
origin of this universe.
Remember you are all people and all people
Remember you are this universe and this
universe is you.
Remember all is in motion, is growing, is you.
Remember language comes from this.
Remember the dance language is, that life is.
When I woke for school the next day the sky was uniform & less than infinite with the confusion of autumn & my father as he became distant with disease the way a boy falls beneath the ice, before the men that cannot save him— the cold like a forever on his lips. Soon, he was never up before us & we’d jump on the bed, wake up, wake up, & my sister’s hair was still in curls then, & my favorite photograph still hung: my father’s back to us, leading a bicycle uphill. At the top, the roads vanish & turn— the leaves leant yellow in a frozen sprint of light, & there, the forward motion. The nights I laid in the crutch of my parents’ doorway & dreamt awake, listened like a field of snow, I heard no answer. Then sleepless slept in my own arms beneath the window to the teacher’s blank & lull— Mrs. Belmont’s lesson on Eden that year. Autumn: dusk: my bicycle beside me in the withered & yet-to-be leaves, & my eyes closed fast beneath the mystery of migration, the flock’s rippled wake: