Happy sweet 16!
We the mourners
We the mourners
roam the land
a planet-sized graveyard
witnessing the body as tombstone
inclined toward the sharp knife of
Love’s lapidarian urges
etching Time wounds
into our skin –
urging the most tears
We the mourners
swallow the sour spaces
between right & wrong
holding the knowledge
of their folly – fools alive
enough to write songs
poems plays paintings
in the lush language of loss
of lust of legends – heads
bowed into palm-praying
hands throats humming
We the mourners
take pride in the stride
of the single falling tear
in the animal-gutteral growls
of the multi-breathed sob
in the rib-shaking depth of the
long-winded wail
cry weep bawl – we bowl
our bodies into the sacred
howls of healing
We the mourners
are bodies built
trench-laden & weaponed
for the onslaught of wars
unceasing on land
in sky in water in
mind in flesh gushing
bloods deviant with
DNA unleashed since
the First Body bloomed
– we weapon with Love
We the mourners
do not forget the first light
the second dark & all the
colourful shadows between
– fiery & untimed unnamed
do not forget before Before
when the body tingled after
flights stardust-drowned
delirious determined
to omit its genesis
We the mourners
strum the nervous system
into freedom – braiding
fight flight freeze zingy
nettles embrace
stinging fingertips
lips bloodied
elegant & ebullient
We the mourners
continue the chants
benedicted protectors
our knees so swollen
we are double-capped
cradled in earth’s
dancing dust –
praising we choir
We the mourners
clutch the One True Prayer
that begins with
the sprawling what if
and never ends
Oh we bead the voices
of the dead lift them
seeding back to the sky
We the mourners
move among you
slip under tongues
rage under ribs
hover over hearts
contaminate your rituals
of goodbye with the
staining ink of memory
sew them to the souls
of the next bodies to Be
We the mourners
engage with our voices
we give you our faces
we listen with our bodies
we answer the calls
we respond to emails
we talk through texts
we post, we comment
we like, we share on the
Love-net that is human
to human interaction
we do not have cell
phones or laptops or
computers – we have
each other we have you
we patience we kind
we hold we carry
we here, we hear
we you, you, you
We the mourners
are the carpenters of shelves
designing and building
your golden libraries
home-ing the books of
your storied lives
we parchment, we ink
we hand write the words
of humanity’s be-ings
if you look closely, you will
see letters in your blood
love loves to read and
the past is a series we
each contribute to, the present
is a manufacturing marvel
the future, o, the future is a window
tucked in the basement with
ghosts and clowns and spiders
and mice – lounging in the
detritus of deception
We the mourners
preserve the tip of the tongue
it is getting lonely, discarded
in the speed of need-to-know
no, no – the tip of the tongue
is the holder of creativity’s
cauldron, the altar of imagination’s
fierce fortress, intelligence
the tastebud of transcendence
– why flounder it
to artificial accoutrements?
we heed the healing force
genuine in our care for the
tongue’s mighty roar
We the mourners
eat grief for every meal
spice it with saffron & sage
agrimony & quassia
sauce it over pasta
spread it on warm bread
there is enough grief
to feed trillions and trillions
need to eat. Grief is thick
tender sassy sticky ripe
sweet nasty juicy rich
like hand-churned butter
batter-beautiful and bold
we overeat and bloat
blissfully for your griefdom
to continually thrive
We the mourners
refuse politics as a container
for global exchange we trust
in the evolutionary grit of the
radical amygdala, of the hankering
left brain right brain continuum
we believe in the flux capacitor
the lorax the lord the god the goddess
– in the souls of scrolls fossils
petroglyphs zircon crystal dragons
flies roaches and clonal aspens quaking
for 80,000 years and counting – we’re
counting. We believe in the flat line as
a goal post to be lifted and moved shifted
and shoved as a means to share
Everything – We believe in Munsch
We the mourners
cloak and swagger in the
silence between screams
explosions faces slaps car
crashes thunder rolls forks
scraping plates nails scratching
chalkboards – the silence between
tantric orgasm pants labour moans
and the first pure newborn vibrato
We are collectors of the vibrations
of love matter-ing inside life’s bold
and brittle becomings. Our satchels
perpetually overflowing with
the juicy soma of now
We the mourners
knit with yarn of loneliness
needles click-clacking inside
the calm light of moon sigh
and sun whisper – the depth
of your lavender longings, your
yellow yearnings, your purple
hopes, your green envies
your spectrum of abilities to
love is a scarf pattern we
art with and for so to warm
the throats in existence
all the voices tangling
to talk in the perfect depths
where soul pieces await the
communion of connection
VANESSA SHIELDS 