Hammock

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To a kitchen, to a jungle

To sanctum, to circus

As I rock in my hammock

and smell the warm bananas

baking with the butter and the wheat,

Smell the fecund river teeming

with piranhas and leeches and snakes the

girth of a strong man.  Rocked,

in the hammock of that man’s

river, rocked in the woven nest

of all my histories, all my

distances from water.  Betwixt

the curtain of line-dried laundry,

grandmother-hung and the curtain

of birdsong, tiger tongue.  What

jungle?  Whose kitchen, in whose

cottage?  What chimney draws smoke,

what have you spoken of?  Of confession —

of what sin.  The reflection of the fence

on the water makes ripples, makes waves

What are they saying, written on the water

written on the waves, rocking, rocking

between my kitchen and my wild place.

 

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