Just a little while ago I attended a lecture about social work. The speaker was Michael Bird, he was inspiring and truly sweet. I went to the lecture as an extra credit assignment for my First Nations of Western North America class, and I was supposed to write a paragraph in response for my professor. This is what came out.
He told us that his mother had him when she was 17,
She was just a young thing
But he gave her his success
Reverently
“I owe it to my mother,”
I think of her, this child
younger than I
younger than many
and think of the butterflies in her stomach
the man they grew into
this wise servant of many
who gives the words of his people to anyone that will hear
pearls of truth
spilling from the mouths of our nations castaways
smooth and sincere like river rocks and scripture
and the eyes of 17 year-old girls who hold the world in their stomachs
when my mother had me she was 35
she had seen the world and made life before
on canvas, in a garden, flesh and blood
she built the world for me in a careful way
it is a wild, cautious, creative one
when I find my successes, whatever they be
I hope they will be hers
and she will want them
I am a young thing
and I don’t quite recognize myself
each time I see a face in the mirror
I’m not sure if my heart is made of flesh or more
it might be made of apple
it might be much wiser than me
it might be collecting smooth sincerity as I skip rocks in the river
as I chase butterflies in an offhand way
and listen to wise men
who were the children of young things
No comments:
Post a Comment