It was a family meeting under the singing pines in 1972. /
The look-alike humans were breathing hard and moving /
up the hill to their meeting spot. What would soon be said /
would soon be lost to my ears for twenty years but never /
leave the hippocampus of my eyes.
In your country, where you are from, I don’t know what / your people say to you, when they recognize you for the // first time, looking like all the rest, with your dirty sack of / laundry and your pencil dangling like a spider on your ear.
There are women who wait at the door until you arrive like you said you would. Women who stand at the screen with their elbows poking in at the wire like original tuning knobs made of fossilized walrus bone.
You can’t prove it. Nobody can. Still I believe she never repeated herself. I have read her words while sitting down or standing up or flat on my back. I have leaned on pillows and read them over and over again and every time they sound different depending on the ache and altitude of my day and desire.