WEBVTT

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And I might as well
read the title poem

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from the new book Fire.

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Oops, sorry, I should have a--

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shouldn't it pull that out.

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OK.

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Fire.

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I have my grandmother's
veins deep, dark rivers,

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fiery rivers, a healing river.

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They tell scripture on
my hands, a calligraphy

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in a lost language, a lost
land within the sinewy river.

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I take them on a march,
with time they wither, melt,

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but the veins remain, arteries
to my soul, the heart of me

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always there, always
strong beating

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a promise, the swish, a silent
gown on a lone bridesmaid.

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I have grown to love them.

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I honor these hands.

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I've been past.

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I have grown into these hands--

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strong as the
labor that bore me.

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Not a wisdom, but fire.

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