On this day of an unspeakable pilgrimage
I was chastised for knowing the stumblings
of my footprints of my interminable soul
and for recalling my roaring voice as a man
and my whispering voice as a woman
many ages ago.

I had wandered through a cactus field
pricking my thighs and fingertips along the way;
spine-like fingers scratched into my ribs front and back
stimulating bitter, salty tears.

My blood did not shimmy along the collapsed,
lifeless capillaries
but I learned;
it is lesson of most importance.

I prayed for a final pilgrimage
(I heard a thousand bees buzzing “duty, duty” as I meditated).
I covered my swollen brown face in shame, of course;
I am condemned with this mask adhered to my suffocating Self!

I recalled a man who had reared me for a brief time.
He cooks, he stews over a boiling pot of misery,
he drinks and drinks;
his head is filled with unrelenting sorrowful memories;
his swollen brown face is covered with shame;
he suffers because he suffers.

I’ve tasted his salty, sick, intoxicated tears.
What had this man done?
I wish to utter “Father,” but can not;
I desire to swipe with a brisk stroke,
the pain, captured in a moment and thrown
into a timeless zone.

The man’s face has change;
it is darker brown and deeper lined.
His heart was repaired with a scalpel, for awhile.
Now it beats a sad, slow, limping song.

One day the man murmured, “child, I want to call you friend”
I wished to utter “Father” just then.
But I could not.
And I know it is lessons of most importance.

(1988-1989)