place of stones
and bones and

the silence of the past
the pictures that
have no voice to speak

but she is here
to launch her book
(how far it
needs to sail, how
high it
must soar)

and we are with her now
magically aloft, staring down
like the gods
exhilarated, even as we are sad-eyed

for so much of could have been
is written here
between the lines

so much
strange promise that
has been lost
for here are the faces who
were not solely of
their moment, or
turned to the past

but facing us squarely, asking us
about a future that was
absolute conjecture, looking
at us directly as if
we are what they
never, could not, or
always imagined

she reads the poem from her preface
and like sky and Earth like Earth
and sea
here is where the personal
meets the political

here is the dance that
(forget the
shifts in
style) we
have always done

across the sand
over stone and bone
freshly cut, still
wet the tarmac