Mary was not his mother.
Virgin was not her breast.
Hands, darkly supple
holding suspended breath.
His eyes are life as grave.
His grave is wide as life.
His skin, both child, yet worn, like seastone,
My father, a soul who ran from home.
I called to mountains west.
The sun fainted slowly into night.
I called to the mountains east.
The moon smiled yellow and bright.
I called to the sea of south.
Monks left leaves bitten to dust.
I called to the sky of north,
angels flocked with fright.
I called within and found my father.
His face was blue like a rock dipped in somber.
The world suddenly collapsed like a weak lung
as my father wept emotions
he had never felt before.
I have but a long, fast journey,
arriving at the soul that spat three quarters of his blood
adjacent to my heart.
I find a life that left him narrow,
turned him blind,
blindly turned him,
turned he blind.
This is a song about sadness,
a melody of remorse,
a hoarse voice hollow,
an immigration discourse.
America grey almighty,
star spangled nothingness.
You have stolen the man who wore Beauty
and made him a refugee.
Remember Eddie Adams
as he shot American’s face white,
white face at night,
night worn with American white.
Remember his picture as a picture of father,
father of all fathers.
When my father was shot,
America killed itself.
By Ji Strangeway
Poet, novelist, writer-director: Ji Strangeway transcends categorization, embracing beauty wherever she finds it. She has made it her mission to capture this invisible beauty and share it with the world. Writing from the margins of gender, orientation, and circumstance, her work is an unconventional call to action. Her words are for the dreamers and the idealists. When she’s not beating deadlines, you can find Strangeway in Los Angeles, riding the crashing waves of electronica at a club, basking in the Santa Monica sunset, or reveling in the full spectrum of life experiences in her travels. Follow her on Twitter @jistrangeway or Facebook ji.strangeway