The Lost

I wrote this about four years ago.   It’s still one of my favorite things that I’ve written.  It’s so much better than I tend to think I am as a writer.

 

the lost

we are a wandering people

aimless, heedless of time or historical space

nomadic in our tendencies, illiterate in our style

we are the lost

 

i see my sister walking down the street

all body: angles & curves

she draws attention, has become accustomed to the attention

courts it with unconsciousness now

she doesn’t remember where she learned it

can’t remember the moment she decided to be this thing

but it touches something, fills something

taking up space where there could be so much more

 

this brother wants to know my name

and i wonder if it will mean anything to him

anything beyond body: appealing angles & enticing curves

this is the vessel he sees, not understanding that it’s just the shell

i dream that one day i will turn around  and ask his name

and he will tell me of the history that flows through his veins

that he is the incarnation of the victory his ancestors can claim

that, really, he just wants to hear my story when he asks me my name

 

we are the potential of ages past

flowers blooming on once bloody battlegrounds

this is what has nurtured us

and why we should be great

but we have forgotten or never been taught

and so we are lost.