MARCH 1997
The Possibility of Revolution
by Mira Chieko Shimabukuro
Jean, you know how I am.
Thinking so much whenever I am here. Yesterday I saw purple morning glories
twist and wind, and up in the hills, deer ate crabgrass where a house, no,
a mansion, must have stood. They tell me of narrow roads and the fire's
sweep, its leap passing highways and homes. Now, teenagers all climb the
hills to skate the insides of pools, pull air to turn full circle in the
sky.
Last night, I couldn't
sleep. The neighbors' screen door slamming the wall; gun shots, three, maybe
four, blocks away. There's been seven murders in seven days and bureaucrats
all scream check-in points, barricades. Asleep, tree limbs explode, cars
run out of control, every homeless man is asking for change. Barbs of wire
surround Berkeley High. Each crook and jag hooks the sun and stars burst
into shards at first sight. Bare branches, all paper cut against the sky.
Morning, I stumbled on the bathroom tiles. Cold clay fired solid, I woke
quickly to the touch, each eye opened wide, these bare feet standing ground.
© The Raven Chronicles 1997