When my son said ting
demanding I sing as I held him
like the newborn of seventeen months before
there was no hesitation or clearing of throat
and the words came instinctively
As I went walking
that ribbon of highway –
Woody Guthrie I call to you
from a land where toilet water
really does swirl down
in the opposite direction
and where once I was witness
to the murder of a brown snake.
I call to you from the ancient place
so old its history was never recorded
and the present sometimes seems delayed
the future assured of drought.
The daytime sky is the same we share
though the sun seems much closer here
(you’d have burned on your journey without 30+)
but the night sky is poles apart;
if Orion is upside down
then of course I am lost
cannot be blamed
(though his arrow points south
and flies the earth’s circumference
and eventually all roads lead to…)
I saw above me
that endless skyway,
I saw below me
that golden valley
This land was not made for you or me
but my child in his habitat
will walk these roads, hardened bare feet
enduring three cornered jacks and shards of glass
and clean remains of white-washed bones
pointing out landmarks along the way
making landmarks of his own
leaving me
ten steps behind
always looking back for what
I have never been sure.
Woody, I am singing, a longing in my arms
with a weight much greater than these kilos
I translate into twenty-four pounds
my voice has become smoother
as I float down a river in my mind
(the Rappahannock, where else would I be?)
and forget about the brittle grass
that pokes at my bare feet
because I do,
walk this land
with bare feet.