I asked the paradigm of wisdom; where could he be?
--hid for years beneath Atlantis, learned to bleed in water.
No one saw my face. I grew thorns, until a Saguaro
bled on my lips. I reveled in his sun. Heard him say:
I want a child. I buried myself in my cave.
The god Chac sequestered me with rain. I was cleansed,
queuing on a cliff. But nothing opened,
not a single bulb flowered. He didn’t scream,
just threw his fists, demanded a child, an excuse to leave.
Then, I wove a Sarape, wore it in all sorts of dives.
The moon turned her back disgusted with my sight.
I grew lethal to the touch. A Tolteca pulled
me by the hair and asked, if I could dance.
That night he slept between my legs. In the morning
I warned him, said: I am a barren tree.
Don’t ask me for the child. Don’t ask me where he is.
Instead he said; A choir of angels could respond: in the slums
of Calcutta our seed prospers with love. You might want
to examine my roots, I said, to see if I can bear you fruit.
A choir of angels could respond: in the slums of Sao Paolo
our seed prospers a thousand fold.
You might want to lift your hand and strike.
A choir of angels could respond: in Kampala among orphans
on the streets, maimed, and robe of childhood by an M-16,
our seed, the one you think I want to plant with thrills and chills;
A choir of angels could respond: feed my armies,
no one is a barren tree.
