We build a safe around our birth stones

crafted from a dream, a gourd, a drum–made

chant.
Pile it high with frigate bird bones,

song bones, bones of

cherished names.
We rub sinnet along our thighs and lash our

cache. Our spent stories sound, where words

and names and songs are not forgotten.
One day before, now, or beyond, something

with a heart drops a hank of its flesh before

us. It sounds like a drum and we know —
it’s time

to undo the rope, iron-rock and bone-sand.

The stories, they tell us
that if we are the dark blue seas then we are

also the pillowed nights and days, soft with

clouds spread half-open.
We are a tidal collection, hind-waters of the

forever we rally on, to break the staple

metaphors from the fringes.
Safe.

We sound together on a dance or

bark an intricate rhyme.
We, the filaments of a devoted rope. We, who

contain a continuance and call it
poetry.