People who live in cities learn directions from streets and freeway. Buildings are the monuments of survival in these arid landscapes. Trees grow but are planted by people who drive them in cars with their seatbelts on.
I have a birth story. It involves spirits and meant to be’s, and its only shared with those who are very close to me. I remember big mountain which was always to the north and east. I remember the sound of your teeth. I know the density of sand and how it will fall if you hold it in your hand. I know that drawings were made in secret and below my feet, and I know you were always part of me.
run away from your life today and sew leather onto your toes. practice practicing to breath. hold on tight to the pieces of clay that keep us safe. you think you can chisel faces of your heroes into the rock wall scenes, but I know dirt that formed itself into woman over time and her peaks sing over the lands that she made baren of hands. This will never grow into a man, this will never live in your time, this will always be part of mine.
There is no English word for people native to this land. We were called Indians because India was a place to chisel into the sand. I am not an Indian nor am I not an Indian. I am the silence between and I am the unseen.
