stand with me

Be calm. You are standing at the center of the real world. With me.

We breathe together beneath a purple mountain that lives Under sky that carries fire in its clouds Above a brave river whose water’s all dried out The trains breathe hard in hot summer air to hiss and yell Slow and steady they spread themselves beyond this border (that border) The cars from round the world squeak and push while we rely on the blowing of that whistle to call the dawn to call the dusk to usher in a midnight pause.

Remember where we stand.

Hold your heart tightly The men come walking, as many as the women, as many as the children Steady over a bridge. They keep their stories safely in the warmth of their pockets carrying what was what is what may never be Toward uniforms that wait for them to climb and reach Time and plan the visits to their family for the week Count and save the money that they need. The women load their bags around their shoulders To clean the floors of cleaner homes To raise the children who are not theirs To cross the bridge again to raise their own.

Remember where we stand.

Floods come in and out from near and far melting words and color in the desert heat What courage brings men and women in and out pulsing from the center of the real world? A man salutes to call the cadence of the day Like clockwork all the warriors go marching Stepping 1 to three to get to 4. The steady sound of helicopters tempts the chorus of the trains As both merge sound with air to usher in another day. The men go walking, as many as the women, as many as the children To this place of neither here nor there where everyone’s arriving everyone’s departing everything is changing and everything’s the same.

Remember where we stand.

A long wind whispers in our ears Your eyes close to count one million voices as it carries the sound of dancing feet syncopating roots that trace mountain trails and desert crossings. Your grandmother came from somewhere else for you to come from here adding languages to languages for memories of memories. Dried yucca stirs in the wind piercing through the space between all of this and silence.