The bandages of the wounded.
All of it,
A silent storm.
Me, left out there.
Dying of hunger and of love.
Out there,
Everything, even music, reminded me of beauty, and
That literature was the best plaything of all.
Out there, a big world:
I didn’t know why we were fighting.
Parrots painted all colors,
A hen scratching to the beat of a tambourine,
Men making fish,
Women replacing buttons,
Children discovering ice.
Out there,
I could not find what I was looking for.
Every house a madhouse.
Daily habits nonsense.
The eggplant patch of my memories,
Nothing but mourning and exile and dust.
Then I found it,
Gigantic and sturdy,
Almost enough to drown me in a cistern.
Its soft whispering,
A mineral savoring
Of love.
I hung my hammock between almond trees and made love to it in broad daylight.
I gave thanks to it.
Why?
It opened my eyes.
I saw a light rain of tiny yellow flowers falling.
Yellow flowers falling on the town,
Covering the roofs and blocking the doors.
Yellow flowers opening up the most hidden passageways of my heart,
Lifting me up into the air.
I saw a new day breaking out on the horizon,
A sediment of peace filling me.
It had never occurred to me until then to think
I was too young to know
That I would hear music again,
That I would smell the whiff of oregano,
Roses at dusk.
That I would go on living,
Human and nostalgic,
Remembering without bitterness,
Multiplying all that is good,
Softness in my heart.
About the Author
Sarah Stark is a former policy analyst who wrote about international security issues, including nuclear nonproliferation and peacekeeping. For the last 14 years she has made her home in Santa Fe, New Mexico, where she currently teaches literature and creative writing at the Institute of American Indian Arts (IAIA). She is happily married and the mother of four wonderful children.
Please visit SarahStark.net
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Out There By Jefferson Long Soldier
About the Author