kindling fingertips/ kinship

I often think about the events in my life 
that shaped me into the person that I am today.

Me - this body, sharp canines and sharper tongue, 
with thoughts and a heart that beats
blood flowing through my veins 
from these feet that carry me
to the tip of my fingers
that make things, break things,
clings on to every shifting faces,
and pieces back together every shattered fragments.

Was it the crackling thunder
that forced my grandmother to hide under the cover?

While I, forced to lie beside her
yearned to dance with my mother monsoon.
Out in the flooded streets,
floating in plastic buckets with the neighborhood kids.
I longed to stand under the rain gutter waterfall
heavy, ice cold, beating down on me,
until my lips turn blue, fingers pruning up,
spirit growing wild.

Or was it the sight of my mother crying,
eyes are waterfall as her white fingers gripped the steering wheel?

I knew I broke her heart that day, 
I knew it wouldn’t be the last.
My beautiful mother,
the world has been so cruel to her,
gave her all its uglies when all she wanted
was a sliver of peace.
And I, her only daughter,
she wants to wrap up, sheltered away. 

The pieces of souls our life-givers gathered up to create
a body - eyes that hold lies, sharp ankles, and fingertips.

I, a human being of her creation
that she wants to keep safe, 
and unmarred by the cruel world. 
But me, in my ugly
this body with thoughts and unending desire for destruction,
wants her to let go.
Breaks the hand that feeds and holds me tight;
your loving embrace got to be too suffocating. 

And so I seek solace in the pages of boundless souls,
as broken as me. 

Burroughs, in Tangier with needles in his veins.
Kerouac, bleeding from the inside out from the liquor that fills him.
Guevara, body littered with bullet holes. 
World strayers with no permanent structure, 
some of us are not meant for promises and planting roots.
A life, a catalyst,
the brightest flames never really did last long.
We break the things that we love, and most of all ourselves.

But we, I, you - with fingertips that our mothers and forefathers gave us
can at least create and give life to something new. 
Advertisements

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s