The fact is that until I fall asleep, 
in some magnetic way I move in
the university of the waves. - Pablo Neruda

Power at its best is love seeking justice. -  a radical priest


When love

finally came

two birds

one near

one far


each my eyes
saw

one cawed

one was still


waves below
shook the high

rock from which
my house was wrest


Making my bed, 
that grand ship of
many seas, its feminine
sails billowing in
salt winds out of
season, soldiers, 
young, false with 
righteousness not 
their own, blew
in and frightened
the birds away

they did not come close
they were afraid of
their own guns

But not me

fearless I faced
pale young faces

the bullets tore
them more than me

their flesh being
bread still fresh, 
oven warm (white
flour smeared upon
their reckless cheeks
crushed too soon
by women's hands
to dutifully bake)  

and mine - flesh - mine
of the mountain patch
formed of Woman's hands

far where my Mother
toiled with me safe
upon Her back, my first
keel, the bow upon which
I first learned to kneel
to earth, to sea

I rocked in Her motion
rowing the faithful Earth
the yielding softness of
She to me (shipwrecking
all my my future hardness
eventually) my boy hands
not yet bleeding with pens
and poems

She fed me Her workers'
songs, of earth, songs
of fragrant sweat, bitter
herbs beneath Her feet
of copper and jade, 
the little potatoes
yellow and purple ones
flavored stones softened
by Her presence, Her
sure toil, lullabies wooing
endless sky into each
tuber-swell shaping
clouds for Her eyes to
see to shade Her from the
intemperate sun to cool
the hard soles of Her bare
feet, no pesetas, only
songs, for shoes

The rich cords, veins
of the sun and the moon, 
conjoined in Her labor, 
hardened into the lead
of my first pencil, 

the lap of my first page

And conspiring late
within me ran the black ink
of Her relentless tenderness


Never then broken by
threat of oiled guns
shining, the radiant
beauty darkening before
me of a sparkling morning
born of soft woolen waves 
shyly attended by youths 
too frail, too dispirited 
to know what bullets really 
mean, their bare feet soft
with obedience, their
leather boots polished, 
lined up at the General's
door, another morning's
cruel ablation


Never then by black
boots broken, but broken
only by the poor, my poor, 
the mountain patch without
voice or even these
two last birds of
shattered brine


Only I could see
behind frightened
faces beneath their
soldiers' caps
tilted to lure
forgetfulness
and sleep never
to be confessed

that my hands
little birds too
were extended to
them in welcome

my words to them
only seconds to go
(the waves were 
counting on their fingers)  
fire and smoke fierce in 
little round mouths, 
perfect circles, 
rehearsals, the 
barrels opening
theirs to mine

Lads, aim for the silver
pen, the Pole Star of my 
shirt pocket where you may 
always kindly find the Heart

that one bird 
for each their 
tearful eyes 
was yellow and
the other red
half-closed to
aim well at the
weft of cloth woven
of my Mother's earth
Her relentless tenderness
almost freed


song
of sea
of stone

of my
house
violently
untethered
from noun 
and verb

foundered at
last without
pen and ink

done with 'say'

little sheep
of childhood play
the toy 
tiny wheels

rolling waves 

for feet fade

when love

finally came

two birds

one near

one far

each my eyes
saw

one cawed

one was still

waves below
shook the high

rock from which
my house was wrest 

*

*

This poem is for Jose who "is now with the Lamb,"
and my mother, Geneva H. Falcon, "One Gracious Lady"