When time caught up to your car-
burgundy red like drenched in cheap wine-
it rubbed up on the bumper, first,
wiping clean the valentine
and leaving only direct connection, at 7507 miles gone,
between you and home.
I (breath) Ethiopia
You asked me to write a love letter to us
so I etched sun symbols onto the skin of my cave walls
asked you to be a better philosopher than me and the Greek
and help me cast away the shadows
s we can look at the light directly.
I took bamboo stalks, tied them into bundles
and waved them around like kindergarten chalk
in attempts to write sonic sky words,
audio cloud memos
because love like yours makes me fly.
Maybe a rickety old crop duster
blustering plenty and skimming trees
I’m airborne, floating,
chasing the star you placed
on the center of my constellation
so suddenly I can navigate storms,
chase lightning and half erased bumper stickers
on the tail end of a wine stained jalopy
that read Freudian slips of origin…
I took beer bottles and stacked them in patterns
braced them against cliff walls in a drunk sway
made them stay with algae mortar and bouy bombed storm waves
so they wouldn’t wash away the sea glass salt washed bottle mural
saying all the poems I forget to write down, for you,
when I’m drunk on your light
as you rise up on the horizon.
The red sand dirt riding across the ocean
to rub up against your bumper in the summer
to disconnect the well intentioned middle man
and bring you closer to your beginnings.
I Ethiopia. Only a breath between the two.
Every time you drive away I see a coastline
and a hippo
and a childhood constructed by contradictions and culture shocks
and anecdotes if antidotes to disappointments
love found in suns drawn on beach washed wood.
And when you asked me to etch my fingerprints
onto the walls of the bedroom as chronicle of love,
I stuck my bumper stickers onto the everything
and ripped off the end word
in hopes to communicate all the words I swallow
Stuck on the bumper sticker of my jalopy chest
rubbed raw and beautiful by red sand dirt,