Rainmaker
This is not a language my people speak.
At dawn,
when the seagulls
are circling off the roof
of colonel sanders
Kentucky fried
chicken bucket.
North America’s
hospitality dish.
So tender.
So tasty.
Come and get it.
Come and get it.
There’s a rainmaker
on a train somewhere.
Past where the rainmaker travels,
night gets darker
as the white gets whiter.
Reflected in the rain
on the road
from Colonel Sanders bucket.
North America‘s hospitality dish.
The rainmaker thinks,
there’s a little girl
who lives beyond the hills,
closer to the mountains
in a village you can
only reach by train.
She says,
some towns lack
fresh winds or flowers,
but all can
share this moon.
She says, in the place
where the dead people go,
whose breath has gone out of them
and it does not return,
there are many white sticks
nailed together.
When I was younger,
I did not know
what they were at first.
I thought they
were seagulls
or white lilies.
But now I know
what they are.
They are the markers
for the dead people.
Signs for where
the breath is gone.
I have a large imagination,
she says.
It sits on the mountain
with the moon.
Do not ask me
what it looks like.
It does not even look
like a white lily.
The rainmaker says,
Her imagination
sits on the mountain
with the moon.
Do not ask her
what it looks like.
While I
in my life,
walk to the donut shop
in early morning,
black morning.
My earplugs in
and car lights running
over my body.
Yellow hand,
white walking.
Yellow hand,
white walking.
This is not language
my people speak.
It is something with which
they come face-to-face
at the intersection.
Black morning,
early morning.
Road wet,
road black.
Past the park
and the sleeping squirrels.
Stepping over
the broken white line.
Donut shop,
neon light
on the corner.
I reach the intersection.
The light changes.
And I raise her
in my mind
like a seashell
to my ear.
Car lights
running over
my body.
Yellow hand, white walking.
Yellow hand, white walking.
This is not language
my people speak.
It is something
with which
they come face-to-face,
at the intersection.
Taylor Jane Green
This is not a language my people speak.
#breakdown #breakthrough #contemplative #darknightofthesoul #innerjourney #innerlife #journey #performancepoetry #poetry #rebirth #simplicity #solitude #spiritual #spokenwordart #transformation
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