drink
her voice, delicious, spiced rum
her intellect, clear, Russian vodka
her truth, painful, white lightning
her beauty, full, Mourvèdre
her medicine, holy, mezcal
intoxicated and wrecked
you will drown willingly
soberly denouncing air,
pulled into the depths of her luminous current
have mercy, also hear Warsan Shire here, and here.
The First Time I Saw Joy Harjo /Chicago 2017
long, midnight, blue-black hair,
unmistakably hers,
melding into her pitch black jacket
an uninterrupted flowing velvet river
she, a radiant silhouette, like the haloed total solar eclipse that would occur later that year
her regal face is unseen, sustaining the mystery
then she rises like a sun to speak and i am in orbit
her first words: “i feel The Lake so very present in me.” / her voice weighted by the very earth in her throat
later,
my glisteny eyes meet her glisteny eyes,
i memorize her face / and her hands tattooed in black ink/ she is dignity embodied/
she inscribes a protocol for me
in my book of hers, made of trees, and i think why am i, who am i, here
I give her a necklace
suspending glass vials of seed
watermelon, corn, clover and milkweed made by my hands on these forced-treaty lands
my symbolic reciprocity / for her poems that seeded me, collaterally
her poems are a well that
still water my thoughts and words
although i am not sure i am deserving of the drink/
god, i never want to be just another culture thief
the limineen | poet & crone 