For the incarcerated Americans

.

Time must pass

really

slowly

for you.

You must be

Black Belts

in Time

by now.

.

I didn’t know what to write you.

I just imagined

being here

in this room

with you.

.

I am

more terrified of

these guards

than I’ll ever be

of you.

.

If I finish this poem,

they’ll have my head.

Because I know the truth

and you know the truth.

But we can never speak it

aloud.

.

So here is the truth

in Story (my child):

.

This is the story of Time

and why

I, the broken poetess of salt,

am deeply

in love with him.

.

He built the world.

The freight

all on his back.

.

His Life

upholds his brother, Death.

Because he loves his brother.

.

I love his brother, too.

And for some reason, they love me.

.

Though

I am no one

.

To them, I am everything.

.

They teach me how to fly.

How to dance, dream and speak.

They gave me these eyes and

this mouth

for poetry.

The twin brothers

are my guides.

.

I tell you

the best lesson Time

taught me

that

I will never forget:

.

You can count the passage of Time

in the comings and goings

of the spiders in your universe.

.

So, my loves.

Here is what Time and and Death

assure me

about you:

.

You are the mound builders.

You are the ones who re-open

the gate,

the gate that once was open,

before class and colony.

.

Between the octagon and the circle.

Where the brothers once

could meet.

.

That is whose blood runs

in your veins:

the octopus, starfish, whale, hawk.

.

In a place

where no one

is allowed to steal Time from you

except you.

.

(The day I completed this poem, I discovered an identical spider (or is it her?) had returned. She changed from my left field to my right.)