claudiapena.com

I love the way the elders walk,
telling you their story
this one with a concave arch
bowing back
arms like a ballerina’s balanced en pointe
carrying baby,
or satchel filled of harvest fruit,
or just hands cupping air…pondering–
chastising running youth–
holding up community.

That one,
moves hips and shoulders parallelly
chest plate up and forward
hip bones make a figure eight walking
climbing stairs slowly, upright tension
little puffing sounds
with no barriers to explain
days before roads or osteoporotic pains

The last is spit fire:
tan brazen wrinkles matching yellow acid-eaten teeth,
pristine visor, gloves and climbing gear,
looking onto streets and garden rows
as his pick stabs trash and aerates cabbages
that the school buys.
He’s fire that opens pollen pods,
fire that burns excess,
nurturing seeds to grow.

Like geographical transformations,
skin wraps political and natural history:
this joint was the famine
that one was the flood
these were from migration, one mountain to the next,
They tell the story of the place they watch over
walk, clean and nurture,
living the word…community.

add to del.icio.us