On November 13, 1985, I was born.
With her heart straining, my mother
had a vision of her dead father.
In an operating room, I was freed
like Caesar.

I met the sunshine,
the new suburban stucco,
the bored greeting of
my American desert,
and wailed.

Miles below my new home,
the earth rumbled with fire and rock.
For the third time in 400 years,
the volcano Nevado del Ruiz erupted
high above Colombia.

Was I in the fields, in a home,
in the village walking?
I raised my head to the sky,
shielded my eyes from the sun,
and looked into death.

Two different skies saw me
into and out of the world.
Ash and soot, the peak of an orange mountain,
and the blue purity of the Southwest.
I see them both, now.

As I float in the swimming pool
and think of all the people I am not.

06/07/2004

Posted on 06/07/2004
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