Echolocator

When it became my turn to speak

all that my tongue produced was dust.

I hold my cat to this. I wear finery.

in moments of clarity there is no grace

it sits into the jar, the kitten, we pace

As I watched the saplings become trees

I found a song my father sung, in my mouth.

No words, just melody. I am unuttered.

on black and white film we are dressed in a shadow of lace

it sits into the jar, the kitten, we pace

I hold my cat still, as he becomes. The names

of ships that sank on their maiden voyages

are not its. I shall name him Castro.

among the flotsam were documents the sea-air could not erase

it sits into the jar, the kitten, we pace

If it becomes like it was, is, ever shall

I will partake in blood-lettings to appease

the vengeful sky-god. I am deep ecology.

our feet wet in the sand at night, there was a lantern we would always chase

it sits into the jar, the kitten, we pace

When my memory becomes, like my tongue,

dust, effluvial, sunken, and pure melody,

please, on sand, draw the Batavia for me.

with your hands remember the contours of my aging face

we slip into the light, your fingers, they lace

Source: Poetry (September 2015)