a mama walks against the wind protecting her baby and its head
but the mama looks at me
like I was the hurricane instead.
i gave her the benefit of the doubt—knowing how much, like the tornado, I have blared and blown!
all the while Nas and the Marleys be lawding-lord o’er the car-speaker-phone!
and i listened. cause i believe their gospel;
contrary to the Evangelists and the baby ribs the church continues to use as lure;
their Spotify voices simile to a heart being freed in a breeze;
left my driving arms on my turning wheel at ease.
the car window blew
words
about love all sad and true, doing what one must do. my soul too
calling Life a baby’s blanket blue.
beauty has its way of humbling you…
i guess that drive was much about sounds
and proof: that my notes, my poems are in fact a whole book;
with its binding sewn with music for the soul-liquid and good!
but there is a snag
on my overstimulation (by the musical notation)
a tintinnabulation… Mama it belled:
you still have a future to secure—oh, ok, I said.
with so many elements in my life still insecure, you think I need reminding…
ya—sure.
the steering wheel
felt the grip. and its pressure
to be a woman to be a mom
a friend
to travel
to have nice things you love, in profusion
to pay rent and drive a car with gas. insurance and cards.
to fall in love again and again. to buy presents for those you love
in profusion. to find a job
a lover again
—because you need to do what you love
the writing you refuse to let go of.
yet you also somehow choose to not fully rev at. because you can’t afford it.
but you have a view. Which is Not enough for what is due.
to sit with all the time and culture and focus it takes—
i put on the brakes. and that raises the stakes.
so you stay at it and hope.
for the writing you know sets you apart,
in this somewhat noble life
you know at times as strife.
One day, I’ll die…
Though you did your thing—Mana, with Greek-blue pride.
knowing that before you let go, of that tight squeeze goodbye
there was experience and much woo. it didn’t matter with what or who.
as long as the romance of your days and nights
end up at the tail-end of an angel’s flight
—at least you’ve tried.
is to die with that touch of self-caressed warmth and pride.
– Kiki Dranias.
Photo by Doug Robichaud on Unsplash
