Music Our Mother

She
is universal —

every beat
Esperanto, every scratch
a meme coursing
the world.

In the Atlas Mountains
of Morocco
a Berber boy
falls into the arms
of KRS-One,
and north of there, Mick Jagger
kisses an Andorran shepherd
on the ear. 

I can carry the planet
in a sliver of electronics
every time I leave the house…
speak, I say to it.
Tell me how you are,
how we are, that somehow,
this will make it all right.

Break it down for me,
rock of all ages, the simple
tongue of bass and drum
without need of translation.

We can say it all to each other
this way,
talking long into the twilight,
improving the air,
creating a fast wind
that blows over
and ruffles our hair
tenderly,
as our mother would,
as only she can,

with a lullaby on her lips.