Arts & Culture / Convergence / International / Politics / Vol. 2 No. 1-2

for Meena by the sea

Sheila Anozier, Zabeth

Image Credit: Sheila Anozier, Zabeth, (2013), Acrylic on canvas, 10 x 20 inches, Courtesy of the artist

in the morning
too late
too soon
moon
on the western horizon

opal slipped over night
pearl, mollusk, sunstone
tear
in a sea of sky

after a day of last minute cooking
shows
visiting

a dear older friend receiving
but not right now says the nurse
and “maybe he won’t be able to remember you”
“though you can try back later”
after
Lisa calls. Trevor texts.
“I love you.
Happy thanksgiving”

after the temperature drops
and the moon blinks red eyed
into arctic winds

tables push back groan and belch
cups overflow with lamentations
the climate change report is dire
the children of Sana
are at risk of starvation
an insistent caravan of refugees
hoping for “a better life in America”
has come at last, by foot, by prayer
to the California border
once more we gather at Plymouth Rock
to honor the Pequot
thousands of people
are without heat or hot water tonight in New York

and they say
that you

poet
daughter of migrations interlacing

have died

but there you are on the radio reciting
the beloved fiercely beckoning
“Lets live in Kochi by the sea
Find a house with a white balcony
I think the angels will call on me…”

a jeweled tongue tender
feather and flame
licking the heavens

Allahabad
Kerala
Khartoum

Time stops and begins
a candle moon climbs
though they say that this rising and setting
is actually the affect of two spinning bodies
wheeling around each other
earth
tumbling back and away and back again
marking days and seasons

liminal travelers all residing
not on bounded land
but in the imaginary borders
between and connecting
we sing this world as home into being

and I think of the little prince
who so loved to perch on the smallest of planets
and watch sunset over and over
hundreds of times a day

of how in the far north west
of my mother’s island country
you can stand at the shore
and see sun moon stars eclipsed
by sea as worlds turn

whorl of shell
lunation

our Grandmother scolding
about the trail of teenage costumes
tried, shed, and left, in our wake
“like a snail leaving its shell”

halcyon silks
chrysalis ocean

ever emergent butterflies
traversing vast terrains
on seemingly delicate wings

is death this way?

in the morning
too late
too soon
moon
on the western horizon

opal slipped over night
pearl, mollusk, sunstone
tear
in a sea of sky

godspeed
and gentle journey dear bard

yes, you sang and you sing
and sing and sing still
and the visiting angels
are dancing.

With love

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