DRUM Poem by Marije Langelaar

That year we were born in
a body.
We noticed we were beating.
We were beating the drum.

Birds flew up at each strike.
On every fourth beat a new season commenced.
On every 16th beat I bore a child.

We lived our lives like this.
We beat away the years.
Bam bam bam!
We beat the drum.
We simply beat the drum.
Since that was what we had learned.
We beat the drum.

Bam bam bam!
The birds flew up.
Bam bam bam!
A new season,
Bam bam bam!
Another baby.
Bam bam!

Until our bodies began to become disfigured, then we beat
even harder, against the wrinkles, the crumpling
our reduced fertility, the stiffness in our legs.

Bam bam bam!
But no baby came.

We beat even harder, our beating gained
a dogged tone,
until we stopped at the 428th note.
We looked at each other and all the children
I had given birth to,
wild wicked children
with wild wicked hair.

And we looked at the trees that had grown
crisscross through each other
A gigantic mess.
The birds on a branch nervously awaiting
our next strike.

But we didn't beat
We stopped beating

We looked at each other and sawed down the trees
built a house, buried the drum deep in the nut-black earth.

And began to live. We pealed and cooked the fruit
and told our children the story of the drum
and we didn't strike, no new seasons commenced,
The birds rested in a tall willow.
And all was good.

And we ask ourselves, who gave us that drum in the first place?
Who commanded us to beat it? Who brought us the birds, the trees?
Who laid down the rhythm? And where we before? Why?