She waits upon the moon-washed sand.
Clothed in storms and fires and
The drowning shores,
Clothed in our waste,
She has come
That we may become the sea
And the skies and the land.
She has come to sing
That we may take her by the hand
And know her once more.
With my book of notes,
Scattered like birds on a washing line.
Soft white hands on hard white keys,
Dancing two four, three four, four four.
Lost in rhythm and feeling
That settles not this savage soul.
Drunk by my own performance.
But not a tear.
The therapist looked on smiled,
Calling forth more
As I remembered the rubber hose,
Being beat against my back,
And a mother that screamed
Of the wrong being done
Against her child.
Nothing to be found.