This body in which I dwell,
this animal in which I ride,
is not your animal to decorate,
load with your baggage,
steal, or kill.
You ask me why
there’s no talk of beads
or buckskin in my words?
This animal in which I ride
is not yours to decorate.
You ask me why
I never speak of drums
or sweat or feathers?
This body in which I dwell
is not yours to steer.
You ask me why
I do not look upon myself
as you do, translating blood-drops
into culture without a care?
This animal in which I ride
is not yours to load with your weight.
This body where I have made my home
is not yours to open and occupy,
this animal in which I ride
is neither your prayer nor your prey.
How you see what I show you
is not my concern
and if this journey takes me
into the harmful path of your illusions,
if my ride fails and this animal
falls as a result, know
that I will free myself
from that flesh and rise and find
new passage, and
it still will not be one
for you to understand, much less one
to make your own.
May 22nd, 2019 at 12:12 pm
Fine Job
g.r.