Unsettled Settling

by Melissa Ferrer

When I say I want to go home
I want to go home like picking berries off the bush
And hearing the ocean in my mouth
Hearing the planting of gardens in the crease of my hands
Hearing the shade of the tree on my sunbaked skin

I want to go home like running in fields with no shoes
Like drinking coconut from the gourd
And eating mango off the tree
And the fiyah, oh da fiyah burns a path through the mystery in our chests

I want to go home like no locks on doors, no door bells, maybe no doors at all
We sing a song as we approach any home to announce and prepare them for our arrival
And we are welcomed with drink, and food, and games
Where there are no borders in our spirit and thus the flow of life is in our names

Home, where no one SAYS I love you, 
Because it is never a question to be answered
No one seeks what is abundantly provided
And our chests are mountains and rivers instead of hollowed out caves

Home, where life is where the family is
Where there are no separate buildings that fragment the being into proper and professional
Where we are eternally as we are in any moment
Whether planting or hunting or loafin in the field or the river

Home, where our hair and the leaves and the grass and the antennae are one
Where the feet root deep into the soil to drink from the water below
Where the hands hold ALL in gentle caress and guidance
Where the senses are awake within

Home, where the mighty laugh of the newborn
Graces the ear of the elder as she leaves her encasing behind
And rejoins the river and tree of life that courses through our veins
And the wind races sharing in their joy and release

Leaves pumping through the wild hair of children
As they chase their brethren–lions and lambs
Goat and gallo, butterfly and moth
The wind, the river, the sand and sea

Everything runs and swims as if it is flying
Even the blood in our veins
Even the pep in our step
Even the grins above our chins

All free flowing 
All flowing
All free
All all that they can be

You know, 

For Those Who Only See Rain When the Sun is Shining Bright
For Sun Fox
As children we sat on floors scribbling caricatures of what
we believed life should be. With our minds set on our way

and utmost happiness, we would make stripes across the 
page that spoke of trails and maps. Oranges, reds, blues and

macaroni and cheese in our hands, recalling the sun. How many
circles does one body need and whose hands were we holding

in those two dimensional days, where anvils and pianos 
did not kill on impact, but flattened for a change of state.

When our capacity for understanding was as infinite as the
mess we could make, leaving trails of life in our wake;

when purple dinosaurs taught us to hide our traces with
sing song and group think and canvasses could turn into

movie screens on afternoons inside with no cable and 
a journey paved in our minds. When we didn’t touch 

the stove again but never remembered to clean our rooms.
And we knew our preferences and sang them loudly.

Maybe baths were so horrible due to our premonitions of drowning
and those little giants on the window sill in the form of bottled

cleaning products. When baby powder was edible—
so was toilet paper and soap and anything that didn’t sting

too bad. When threats about our eyes sticking didn’t scare
us from sword fighting. Just trying to get a new perspective—

just trying to get a clear view of our nose. When we ate seeds
hoping to grow gardens. Inside of us a fertile ground, inside of us

a safe place to hide from whatever we sprinted from in the dark.
When we were impossible and laughing, smiles growing sore 

and relentless. When rain was an occasion for celebration
for dancing and getting clean, for splashing and jumping—

As long as the sky wasn’t yelling into our small frames.

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