And I might as well read the title poem
from the new book Fire.
Oops, sorry, I should have a--
shouldn't it pull that out.
OK.
Fire.
I have my grandmother's veins deep, dark rivers,
fiery rivers, a healing river.
They tell scripture on my hands, a calligraphy
in a lost language, a lost land within the sinewy river.
I take them on a march, with time they wither, melt,
but the veins remain, arteries to my soul, the heart of me
always there, always strong beating
a promise, the swish, a silent gown on a lone bridesmaid.
I have grown to love them.
I honor these hands.
I've been past.
I have grown into these hands--
strong as the labor that bore me.
Not a wisdom, but fire.