DENISE from the island of Jamaica
LEGS AND MUDSLIDES
For years
my lean nature
and my legs
are the only things that have kept me alive.
Run, run, and run,
speed, speed, speed,
through the woods
"far away" from any danger that lurks in our trail,
our dust
our past lives.
Now, with this shifting, slimy mud,
nothing has changed.
Every time the mud rains, no
pours
down on the people
around me,
a new life begins,
one of fear,
fright.
The earth will only ominously shift and churn till time's end,
ticking like a waiting time bomb
waiting for just the right moment,
to explode,
and take our souls to a better place,
far
away.
The endless
s w i r l i n g
of the mud, awful,
dreary,
and gray.
Life after life, the cycle repeats,
and in the end, what is a single life?
Each time I hear the mortifying, horrible, loud
groan, I know
to run
as
far
as
possible.

My mother always told me
"Your agility is a gift, you know!"
But is it a curse?
Being the only one who could possibly live on? Be free?

Survive?

Who knows.
Right now, all there is in the world
is death,
dirt,
legs,
and mudslides.