4 a.m. tomorrow. today.

1.
this is impossible below the
scoured whites float all manner
of dusty devas from the corners

why is it still so hard to
forget what I cannot

subtract the winter printed under each
raw look-ball. Sleep has moved away. I
wait in vain in its old antechamber

I try to do what is expected, try to

never forget your past

2.
You a r e the same.

Short and dark like
the others, pipped by the same hypodermic
memo r ie s

shared by every tribemember:

the grey croco d ile of death

marches
the desert deaths the screams the burning
priests. You cannot shed any of it.

And not the same. You are things no
clansman ever owns or recognizes.
Infertile, refusing destiny of flesh
the shut door
dreaming your second coming
you are abnormal aberration anathema

you are forbidden but rem em ber

3.
What you could be

"Every other generation is ungrateful. Spits
out old-world heritage refuses to cooperate
neglects the flame. How dare you have a private

grief? You are not yours you are 1.5 million
voices you are lost lakes and territories you
are sung-chanted psalms in the familiar the
obscure church tongue
you are musk incense the heavy women
nose-heavy men the 38 letters of an alphabet
seen mostly by a saint on a wall in a vision.

Do not forget the language of your ancestors,
their history, their (your) pain

4.
In the whited desert of no-sleep, the buzzing dunes
beyond the window-maw, the black gape,
reconcile yourself to being who you

are not who they say

only
who you

I know I am who
I am not s/he I am not you

do not forget