If my sorrow were deeper
I'd be, along with you, under
the ocean's floor;
but today I learn that the oil
that pools beneath the ocean floor
is essence
residue
remains
of all our
relations
all
our ancestors who have died and turned to oil
without our witness
eons ago.
We've always belonged to them.
Speaking for you, hanging, weeping, over the water's edge
as well as for myself.
It is our grief
heavy, relentless,
trudging
us, however resistant,
to the decaying and rotten
bottom of things:
our grief bringing
us home.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Speaking for you, hanging, weeping, over the water's edge as well as for myself. It is our grief. very fine poem. tony