And I feel like I can't just tell you
the title of the manuscript, without reading
you one of the-- there's a series of poems
that are called, "Don't Tell My Mother If They Kill Me."
And this is number two.
"Tell my mom, I hit the avalanche with both hands.
I swept up the sawdust of old white men up to my abdomen,
and I made them listen to those who are actually
losing their lives.
I didn't let them insert some woebegone BS
into a conversation that extends beyond a nation or a tongue
or a continent.
You tell my mom, I ran for the safety song
of the forever nomad.
I swept up in the rubble of our oppressor.
I never stayed still enough to be found out or taken down.
Hell, I ran right up, close enough
to take that awful flag out of the moon.
That mirror belongs to everyone, especially to water, especially
to light.
You tell my mom, I made myself strong in a set of sentences.
Swept up all the sorrow and suffering,
I had soaked up from countless lifetimes.
Outlining the architecture to create a cathedral,
epicenter, swaying with the, don't
let capitalism kill me blues.
I wove 13 tidal waves just to sound out something like, free.
Let her think I am free.
Let her know what that means.
Let me know what that means, too, because I still
don't understand.
You tell my mom, I made it out.
Scratched off my three dots and left loco out west.
Into the Pacific, I turned sunfish.
I swam for centuries.
Learned to cope with myself.
Gave up oxygen for cool compression.
It's always water.
It's always darkness.
Because now I eat the light.
I am the sun.