why don't you send that root
the one that remembers
all of your grandmother's recipes
the rough hands of grandfather
and the names of plants and animals
we see you hunched
crutch in arm
pock marked lungs
struggling to stay dry
beneath dirty water bridges
and tent cities
and refugee camps
waiting for the apocalypse
to reveal your true nature
the stolen land
the burned bridges
the sad demons
just waiting for a touch
in their social isolation
waiting for a chance
to bake fresh bread
play dress up
build a garden
milk some goats
and have a brass band parade
but Babalu Aye
if you hear this call
root us in
tickle
open
roasted corn
fresh coconut
smoked fish
dry wine
an altar of stones
a field in woods
ashe