heart.head.soul.song

this is my heart

this is my heart. it is a good heart.

bones and a membrane of mist and fire
are the woven cover.
when we make love in the flower world
my heart is close enough to sing
to yours in a language that has no use
for clumsy human words.

my head is a good head, but it is a hard head
and it whirs inside with a swarm of worries.
what is the source of this singing, it asks
and if there is a source why can't i see it
right here, right now
as real as these hands hammering
the world together
with nails and sinew?

this is my soul. it is a good soul.
it tells me, "come here forgetful one."
and we sit together with a lilt of small winds
who rattle the scrub oak.
we cook a little something
to eat: a rabbit, some sofkey
then a sip of something sweet
for memory.

this is my song. it is a good song.
it walked forever the border of fire and water
climbed ribs of desire to my lips to sing to you.
its new wings quiver with
vulnerability.

come lie next to me, says my heart.
put your head here.
it is a good thing, says my soul.

: joy harjo

daddy's shoes.

there i was, all of three and a half feet tall, spinning around and around and around. i worried about scuffing my daddy’s shiny new shoes or losing my balance, but when i tried to even focus on one particular thing outside our private circle, my eyes fluttered under the weight of the air and i could only laugh. i laughed and laughed and laughed at the silliness of it all, the simplicity of happiness that occurred when my five year old self was able to dance on the tips of my father’s shoes and feel alive. when the song ended, my dad reached down and lifted me up so i was the tallest person in the room and everyone looked into my sparkling hazel eyes and for a split second, or at least i like to believe, they felt like i did, like irish music can change the mood, like the slowest dance can be turned into an upbeat jig, and like being my father’s daughter was the biggest honor, and it was all mine.