Maafa's Lariat

We are gardeners and daughters of gardeners and we twist proudly      leisure is replacing ritual and I’m not sure if its    about evolution or the barren land but I can hear    myself think again and certain that the empire is temporary      I’m touching the public soil with bare hands and rehearing the     nearness bashful as a fold rehearsing the clearing to be sure we   neglected the necks of noon the next things and talked over them in     radio took a dose messianic unknowns and wondered at the nommo which somewhere    else is infinitive for ‘to make one drink’ I am making one drink in the gallop toward     garden relearning Gunther and thread spun to arrow where tapestry becomes bondage in the very language      you are wearing the close word and in its charge it multiplies together we defy the whole     swamp this way shedding the dissociative brackets for the path from sheath to strangle to black angel and   in our charge it rains so hard all the ducks drown slow There’s always a brighter downfall ripe for    celebrating we are gardeners and daughters of gardeners and we root proudly knowing plants to be the    reborn saints rehearng their hue as a row of muted sun while a hawk holds a ribbon up to the untransmuted energy     Remains keep coming and we glove and store the ruins as if some mummies made new There is something alive on me      if you come now you will hear it humming if you leave low it will let you know: the view of the dead slave in the beautiful apartment with its bright walls and vast proportions is criminal, is war     is this the code   to the garden’s    gate this looking in   and naming this is   the code to the garden’s   gate! And the raised dead   move like the breaking of silence      and since I didn’t say the shattering they      move in a ritual of twitching tones and atonement       drinks itself a chalk sky a talkie treating the   banality of horror like a rival smiling fiend to pry    the catatone off its throat these are our seeds     what seeds are these?