He was very sincere this black man,
talking about civil rights.
About where he had come from.
How he stood out being of color,
and I felt my childhood drift ashore,
somewhere in a boat,
out of cold mist,
out of the morning
with the loon calling from the forest.
The black man and I were twins.
I rose in the darkness,
and like a serpent shed my skin.
I became white as I lifted my oar,
coming in on the water of soft fog.
And he and I parted.
He kept his blackness like a trophy.
I lost mine like an adversity,
a parting.
He talks with a smile above great sadness.
I weep for him.
I cry for myself.
I cannot understand how the beach lost us.
How morning rose above the mist
and we were alone.
He was gone.
I was deserted and went with no faith
into the reeds,
and the forest opened its arms,
and I forgot my brother
and my birth.
I forgot the great journey
of our planetary ship.
I forgot the pyramids we built,
and the armies we led.
I wished only to go home
and take my brother with me,
away from his civil rights,
and his loneliness.
I missed him and our family of huge souls.
I had wandered away,
not knowing how deep the loneliness
of my heart had become.
Except I wanted his arms about me,
two brothers,
who lost each other in that morning,
among the waves,
which never forgot our voices.