River

You know my body
better than anyone.
the way my back hangs
like a hook, arched
for you to snatch
the weight away, the wave
goodbye as I play
dead, the smile I pay
to the sun.

The Questioner

On his last day, surrounded by his closest friends, Socrates drank a cup of poison and died with courage. Plato wrote: “This is the way our dear friend perished. It is fair to say that he was the bravest, the wisest and the most honorable man of all those we have ever known.”



The Questioner

I would not escape my fate.
Human laws, be they imperfect
allow society to grow.

It is not a foreign god;
the colored mind becomes an animal
that on my shoulder sits and
breathes these questions into me.

Questions to animate the corpse
of our beliefs, that lay heavy
as tombs over beauty; she
is raised when asked, “who are you?”..

In a circle we sit, a goblet of
poison to end my questioning,
drown my tongue, my only instrument.
These thoughts were not recorded
by my hand. They are drifting
seeds, winged animals nesting
In your generous and fertile minds.