The Hermit Poet

Kundiman

This morning, the sun not yet piercing the gray Virginia world,
I wake already with longing for those who I soon will leave –
whose voices, raw and importuning, have peeled away
my skin and laid open my chest with the finest of cuts.
Here, in the space enclosed by the white bones of my ribs,
a heart beats with the wonder of so many tongues – no,
it moves like a ship on this dark ocean of home and departure.
Each of us rowing, beat after beat, page after page, haunted by words.
Speak again of salt, lovers lost, of the body muted, of our fathers,
mothers, brothers, sisters, daughters, sons. You who knock at the wooden
door of a guitar at midnight. You who let words carry your limbs
and lips. You who rumble deep into sorrow or anger or unrequited joy.
Tell me now, who will lift us when we are weary? Who will fill us
with the dark beauty of song? What will we say tomorrow,
when we rise to take our next train, next bus, next taxi, or plane? When we
return to the cities we have loved or despised for so long?
What will we say to the open door, to the room full of now?

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