with the sounds of war

soft sounds of bark chips
under my orange tennis shoes as i run the golf course trail
amongst trees so wide and tall
it is impossible to deny
that i am in the presence of elders
the purple of the novel boba tea (taro)
cupped in my hand as we drive, lost-like, looking for our way to the shaded trails
so that we don’t bake the baby
in its black sling
on this sunny afternoon
i’ve lost the language  i say walking amongst the great spills of wildflowers
blooming around usdeep 
(st. johns wart i can identify, but so many others i can’t)
as we walk the trail (baby’s first hike) that meanders
atop powelle butte
and shiz guides me to the mountain finder
where i can at least regain the mountain names
(mt. st. helens and mt. hood so unmistakable, i’ll never forget)
three each i say
offering my cupped palm in which sits
the curve and deep juicy red
of thimbleberries
plucked from the bramble
at the end of the trail
sweet smell of what i guess to be some kind of spruce
whose sap i can’t help but touch
and rub on my wrists
as if oil or perfume
the smoke smell of campfires drifting
across the fence on both sides of the backyard
while the sky pops and booms
with patriotic sentiments i never
wanted to live in a country
that celebrates itself (its colonized self)
with the sounds of war
and i hate that a seven year old on the other side of the fence says about
a black lives matter shirt/sign it’s racist
aand the adults respond with a pause and i assume a glance and say
well, it is what it is! a modern day archie bunker
and this
is a hurt
that can’t be located 
because it is everywhere
from the water world:

Sri Lankan stilt fishermen work on their poles in the southern town of Galle.


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