“COME WINDLESS INVADERI AM A CARNIVAL OFSTARS, A POEM OF BLOOD.”— Sonia Sanchez Protests “his bodylaid flatagainst theconcrete ground,evidencefor another lifetaken.lips that willshare sweet,gentle kisses,arms to give hugsat the beckoning ofthe day’s sunrise,a strength that willlead a nationare all left behindin the chalk line.” FLIGHT HOME “When the casket rolls out onto the tarmac,the men in their yellow vests come to ceremoniously greet you;some with their reflective lights still in hand and voices still blaring in their ear pieces.All the while, we move about in our recycled air of freedom.A woman pages through magazines to ease the boredom.A child intent on carrying her luggage lags behind.Strangers dash and pray to make their departure times.An agent makes the last call for gate close.The pilot says, “Flight attendants, prepare for take-off please.” To the woman with hands made for biscuit making “If the only existence her hands knew was the sticky wetness of rolled doughcurled between tired fingers or the floury weight of thempainting white the grooves of her old kitchen countertop,where would she be?” Remembering “I want to dream and feel the whipping of grassagainst my girlish skintumbling on my grandmother’s lawn;remember each lazy summer day spentlosing ourselves behind her housewith our bellies full of picked blackberries and plums;feel the freedom of the future that youth possessed.The good ole days are beckoning me back.” In a crowded train to you “I replay this last time that I saw you;not long before the phone call to tell me that you were goneand after the reality that this would be the last image I’d have of you.So I hold it close wrapped both in guilt and fears of fading.Placeholder for a lifetime of memories not acted outfor a grandfather I barely knew back then.Today, I’m alone in a crowded train of strangers.My eyes shut closed and heart wide open withmemories taking me back to you.” Oprah and my Garbage “Nothing that has ever happened to you is wasted”says my aunt Oprah to me. OK, fine my fantasy aunt.Well, maybe it was to me and about 20,000 others pressedshoulder to shoulder and knees to back in a crowded New Jersey arena.None-the-less a year later, her words are what I hear.” Winter Morning “Nestled in the perfect winter morning,is the glory of God’s creation;from the birds huddling to protectthe song in their hearts tothe white-tailed deer returning home.” “A loud thunder of a slap fills the room of studentsand slowly, I am jolted into reality. I see him.I see him barely amongst the rage. Hands, clenched in air,move in parallel flight with Henrich’s eyeglassesand the sound of the boom box.He is our friend tussling powerlessly against his own inner self.” Breaking into Dawn “The backdoor opensforcinga scaling pitch then athump.The creaks in the stairwellgive way tostaccato beats.(we should really fix those one day)” sounds in b-flat “We sit here.stare at each other here.we are uncomfortablein a cramped living room that swallows our voices whole.our intents hide behind our conversationsrevealing themselves unknowinglyreaching around to open, then close and to open again.” Here. The Truth Starts. The Inevitable But “I knew that it was coming.No not ‘rapture in the sky‘ comingor ‘watch your back’ coming [I’m coming for you];just that around the corners of your words,there was a ‘but’ coming.”