“I know there is something larger than the memory of a dispossessed people. We have seen it.” from “Grace”, by Joy Harjo

What I feel
often turns out
like a crude, unsuccessful story,
written by someone
I do not recognize.

There is a place, home,
a mirror I look into,
no reflection, just pain asleep,
it is in a country I do not want to visit.

Everything dims,
the present
isn’t what it used to be,
the future
will never be what it could have been.

A Full House
The body is a house with many rooms, full of moving air,
and all manner of shadow and shades.
There is secrecy behind curtains and doors,
but there are windows too.
The house vibrates with our ambitious endeavor, and its failure.
We pay a price, but there is revival also,
for the diminishing self, with its youth, and its age.
The body is a house with many rooms,
full of joy, full of pain, guilt and grace,
it is where we live, with our future, and all its remains.