There are no singers here.
I remember the ones
singing water another direction,
singing that snake on the ground
away from us, taking turns
singing and there was no other voice
so low as my uncle’s
that sounded like the start of an earthquake
and so the women made him stop. And now
no woman is singing passion
only the old remember.
Young ones, you’ve missed
those singers, those songs,
but you will not miss passion.
It will be with you,
and the songs like wine, something to be taken
from the vine of memory will grow.
I will always
remember that old man standing,
singing his soul out into his open hand,
his palm, the heart line, the life line running out
while I rattled the shells.
He is not here tonight while I am alone
in the woods and I sing.
Suddenly this voice strengthens.
I hear that sound too
as it comes from earth,
the low hum of it. The trees are trembling.
A snake comes out
come forward,
calling life forth.