Exile

 

Long ago under a large Banyan tree,

Or could have been by a Mountain,
Or surrounded by Aztec Aliens,
Or nestled amongst the pyramids,
Around a crack in the earth,
Called the Nile,

Clans
-like arms to the body or toes to the feet-
would meet.

“The village is hungry,
Who will go?”

Men would gather and wait.

Those with sight,
Would step to the precipice,
And hand over brow,
Describe the land,

Others would record,
Curious creatures with furious breath,
Clattering battles and victory.

Together, shaking charms and crying-
Hayanga! -

hey would race across the plain,
Some, left into the scorching sun,
Others right,
Into wind and thunder -

The footage broke as Mayan mothers bathed their naked babies,
And husbands flung arrows at loggers.

A society will die without its exiles,
Thrown out for some way of being,
Its pioneers leaving for lack of oxygen,

Shunned as Westerners,
Too,
Rich speak poise,
Too,
Down through the nose,

Yet -

If all we do is reach backwards,
Only backwards to find ourselves,

We find ourselves freshly raped,
Just raped,
Always raped.

 

See Immigrant
♦photo – Harry Benson at gettyimages.com & Juan Medina for RUETERS at totallycoolpix.com♦

evocative short poetry – words move

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