National Poetry Month

My People Kona Macphee

my people
pass through gardens untouched by the toxic pollen of lilies
sway with the pre-factored rhythm of skyscrapers flexing in strong wind
thicken the air at night clubs and bus stops and cab ranks with their absence

my people
speak with the voices of ten million leaves, of earthquakes and dust motes
feed on starlight and moonshine and fallen crumbs of consumed dreams
grow with the vegetable fierceness of beansprouts, knowing that no growing is death

when they come
outracing planes whose snail trails silver the hollow sphere of the air
from earth where coal can burn twenty years in an underground seam
by sea, with sodium fire in their radiant lungfuls of water

their hands
will greet me with gestures that flux into silent legions of butterflies
will bear astounding weight with the sevenfold strength of ants
will move over me like perfect maggots purging the flesh of wounds

my people
are moving somewhere, traveling in wakes of the purpose the seasons
are wrung by an appetite gnawing at glaciers and atoms and bricks
are tirelessly looking for me, but in the wrong house, or country, or century