And I look for myself, Pa, in the structured lines of boundary,
but find them fading
as I am here,
then I am here,
finding myself in the space
where he dropped his towel and
did not notice. I grew excited in my seat
waiting to see
who would pick it up?
Should I pick it up?
I did not pick it up.
And I find myself this body
of lines, wrinkled and hard
against the backdrop of
and drooping flowers,
will they drop?
will they drop?
I will not take them.
I wait for the Ocotillo blooms
to hit me in the head so I
can make tea like the rest of them,
and I stand there waiting,
but they do not drop.
So I go home alone again.
I find myself in the expanding
the hiker ahead,
the biker ahead,
the driver ahead,
do they think of me?
Do they comment on my backpack
and my patience as I walk the street?
Do I register on their radar at all?
don Juan Matus said,
“Sightseeing is for people in cars. They go at great speed without any effort on their part. Sightseeing is not for walkers. For instance, when you are riding in a car, you may see a gigantic mountain whose sight overwhelms you with its beauty. The sight of the same mountain will not overwhelm you in the same manner if you look at it while you’re going on foot; it will overwhelm you in a different way, especially if you have to climb it or go around it.”
When you are a walker,
every place is the same in the sense
that it creates a physical challenge.
Is that where I am, in the lines of challenge and easy?
I want to ask my ma and pa,
why did you have me?
As my womb yearns to be filled with life,
as my soul expression craves unconditional love,
what is a good reason to have a child?
Do I need one?
don Juan Matus says,
“we are energetic probes created by the universe.”
But it is not enough.
You ask me, pa, who is it I want to be?
What do I want to do when I grow up?
Am I growed up now?
What about now?
I only ever wanted to know who I am,
and now I know,
I exist in the moments of coming and going,
of shade and light,
of being blurry and exposed
under the sunlight,
and disappearing in the
There is the moment of reaction
to define myself as reactive,
to point to behavior as re-occuring,
to have something to hold on to.
I see the purple cacti behind the
lenses of my sunglasses, but when I remove
them, everything is green.
Why can’t you stay purple, I ask, so that I have something to hold on to?
I am flesh here,
a fleshy body with a name.
My relationship to my name is another story
that is made in the becoming and going.
Swim with me, pa, swim with me in the tides of constant shedding and growing.
Release the shores from the burden of constraint.
Who are we?
The lines blur, like a word we repeat so many times we are confused at what a word is,
or like handwriting on a page that looks like the cardiogram pattern of a heartbeat,
and we sing with the arbitrary patterns of meaning,
which disappear like lines in the sand.
And that is okay,
because it makes it easier to love whatever shape.