On the edge of the Texas-Tamaulipas border, where the buzzards float overhead awaiting dehydrated Mexican seekers of the "American Dream" take their last step in the desert, I came to a deep ravine. I placed my back to the dark abyss and let myself fall backwards... into Mexico.
Almost 3 years after the creation of "Dead Man Walking; Alive in Mexico (June 2011) I realize that I am very alive...
Pico de Orizaba
Taken from Huatusco, Veracruz, the closest town to Margarita's family's ranch.
Friday, July 15, 2011
Cedar Lake Poem (Inspired by Anya Spring 2000)
I stare into your depths and onlysee my reflection,
dark and distorted by ripples, waves and swirls.
Sometimes, when I look past myself, I notice the sky.
But you, dark pool, hide depths I can only imagine.
As a child, sitting upon floating docks, I feared
water moccassins, giant snapping turtles, leaches, and the dark unknown.
I imagined Jason exploding from your depths
dragging me below the surface
into your icy abyss
where light becomes lost.
where 40 foot seagrass reaches upwards towards the surface
dreaming of touching the sun.
Is that my destination;
my limbs entangled in your long hair,
my thrashing, my lungs gasping
breaths won't come, can't come.
I remember those days.
British swim instructors with bushy blonde hair
unwaxed bikini lines.
10am instructionals under overcast skies
before the sun had calmed and warmed the air
those token 6 inches of surface water
heated ever so slightly
I could glide upon those 6 inches
But my body always pulled me into the Lake's icy grasp
chilling me fearing the stoppage of breath.
My eyes pleading for empathy
Gray woman with heart of stone.
Gray water. Gray sky.
Pale eyebrows over gray eyes,
my skin knobby, tightening and graying with chill.
She never saw me beyond the lack of motion in my limbs,
the wind drowning out the clattering of my teeth.
I sit in the sun upon the grass watching children splash in the shallows or
I sit upon the docks, side of enclosure.
I listen to the children's laughter
the sound of bellie flops, cannon balls, back flips
Memories of myself resurfacing under the docks,
momentary thrill of disorientation
Your waterworld turning upside down and backwards
I hear hands clapping water, splashing water into faces,
the periodic call out of numbers in the buddy system.
I stare out towards your distant shores of swamp grass, sand, rocks. An occasional sunfish glides across my vision
boys and girls learning the art of sailing.
I remember journeys in rowboats across your surface
adventures into the woods
nights of camping and bonfires;
tales of Cropsy who lived in the shack on your western shore,
who stole stray children and ate them for dinner.
We visited his shack occasionally for the thrill of danger
we found broken beer bottles and bullet holes.
We found new fantasies surfacing with every new discovery.
We rushed away before the icy hand of his ghost grasped our small shoulders
Before we were discovered missing
and resumed fishing for bass and pickerel.
you appear in the eyes of a woman.
In my reflection in her eyes.
I smell the cedars.
I see the thunderheads gathering south and west.
I see the divets created by raindrops falling upon your surface.