The conversation with history is witnessed by the earth and etches the collisions on its body—every rock and road, riverbed and meadow hold the marks of migrations, escapes, exiles, alienations, aging and evolutions. In This House, My Bones, the body and the earth exchange their positions and perspectives. The memories of war are on the skin as well as on the mesa, the exile is written in dust and cells. Through mining experience of occupation, dislocation, and aging, I created poems where the body and the earth examine their bruises.
From Falling Into The Ocean...
It’s just that easy to let go, you wonder, of home or homeland, of tribe or country
drift on the water between there and here and not look empty the sand that once
ran through your fingers, gripped and released.
You’re not sure half the time where you are--
home is different from homeland. One you hold and one slips away or burns in the atmospheres, abandoned. Pieces fall in unknown territories and are absorbed into the land.