Thursday, August 18, 2005
There is so much going onI'm at Fair Grinds again, and I will come back later to write more.
There's just not enough time today. I have a lot to write about, too,
from the vigil I attended last night in honor of Cindy Sheehan's
protest, where I talked to an active-duty marine and held candles with
over 100 New Orleanians, to what's happening with S, my friend Fred,
and, of course, this crazy war we're in. 12:56:03 PM | Soon. 
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That poem from Monday night...The Dream of Water 12:53:44 PM | While you're gone, we drive past skeletons of oak trees, ashen trunks and limbs, past groves of coastal cypress, their sprouts stretched out as thunder- bolts, past succulent ice plants rising up red as hot embers, past monolithic stones emerging from bruise-tinted water, past the wide- brimmed ocean, sunlight-sprinkled. Inside my driving friend's belly swims a boy-becoming. She puts my hand there. His arms or legs or head press against her skin and ripple across, leave an imprint on me. While you're gone, I think about my different oceans: the one your feet splash around near the strand, the one further in where my starfish hands and man-o-ray tails wrap your legs, the one deep down where blind swimmers feel their way across my wrinkled, moon-like nadir. Back home from the coast the grass has turned to sand. The fledgling leaves of the magnolia tree are ringed in dusty umber, her gentle limbs crouched to the ground desperate to be wet through. I have begun to dream of water, wake up thirsting. Yesterday it rained briefly, filled the streets with sewer-stink, fell on the prairie flowers we planted last summer. You're still gone. In the conversation I have with you within myself, you point to the rose bush suffering in the heat, lean forward to turn the tap: "This drought has lasted too long."
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Last update: 9/1/05; 10:09:02 AM .
