Heavy Air, A Poem
A lost entry in the dream journal
home’s air was heavier than elsewhere,
I left with gray lungs flooded,
the patterns staining some carpet,
still, I fall into them every morning,
from rocking beds, I let go,
and see it pulled true,
fell to my growing, aching knees,
bewildered, I held the scales close,
saw the chippings of a forgetful axe,
and then warm by the spreading of its ashes,
even when there is no shore we can run to;
not anymore, “I’m never strong,”
find me carried in flying things,
fleeing what is endless,
ocean’s argument against it,
colorful, flashing and burning images,
that does not last, can you breathe
behind the glass of your family portrait?
This is the fourth poem, “[C] heavy air // heavy shores,” from my fourth poetry collection, countercourse mantra ep.
— Chicano poet from Southern California
