Sorry I’m not the correspondent I should be
And the lines of correspondence between a Christian heaven
And earthly paradise don’t match up.
They never will, unless the trinity includes a female.
It’s common sense theory: how can genesis erupt
Without the passion of opposites?
It’s the first lesson as we emerge from the door of the mother.
We need companions in the after life.
In the after of birth, the after of learning to walk, then run as our dreams emerge from the top of our sweaty heads in a rainbow tatter.
Some of them tuck in their gills
And breathe. Then the creation story starts all over again.
Every time I round that bend on University Street, headed toward Menaul—there I am again running away from your VW stuffed full
with half the native students of the university.
I ran for years after that first clogged breath, made that ragged journey that every mother bears until the end.
Paradise is the Sun born from the mothering sky to here.
And those wet lines of false moralizing going along the spirit path
of Old Crow.
We always saw the truth together, no matter
my sorry-ass high drama.
c Joy Harjo March 7, 2006