Page 26 - WTP Vol. VIII#2

19
the sun on a saturday
in memory of Jarka
it’s a July morning; a brief history of rain
has been read on the hibiscus & her satellites by the windows.
a pond gapingly brown with refrains is receiving
her blessings in liquid; roof of a seeming hospital; & the sea, the sea, the blue book of the people ruffles her pages far out to the mist. think of the silent village, silent in both languages:
english & scream, for introspection; alice is wary.
looking back at the memory, (water being time
& memory a boat floating like permanence on it, but passing by)
i do not, & refuse, to understand why the sun didn’t come out. perhaps it wanted to shame my mother who can neither read
nor be read. perhaps my father’s absence was so bright it was the sun. but I was born nevertheless. when i think about these events,
i see the mistake of dying clear as the rain that fell on july.
& my breath, you shall not rest your siren. i hold death in you, you can run, as i wait for my father who waits for his coming under the rain,
the rain falling under him.
aK oBuruMu