O.I. poem #6

Carol is a middle-aged white woman,
a wounded conch shell weeping
come ashore from the sea.
Her heart was a cliff where she jumped,
her soul was a valley where she washed her feet.

We will not focus on Carol’s shortcomings or why
I chose to write about her
but I have watched her vague as the breeze,
frail as the leaves. I have taken a liking to conversation with her
about life, and universe, and spirit, and healing
and I have understood that pain is all-relative.
Carol has come here searching for an answer
for a priceless cure to her consciousness, for her existence.

I have learned to cry with those most different from me,
have even practiced how to hug such persons.
In America, I have learned the art of privilege
and have empathized with it’s ease.

Dear Carol,
thank you for your passerby concern.
I am grateful for the power in your conviction,
the seemingly colorless, classless laughter you share.
However, I must return to a middle-aged brown mother
who knows better.