The Rock Cries Out

But today, the Rock cries out to us, clearly, forcefully,

Come, you may stand upon my

Back and face your distant destiny…

- Maya Angelou, 'On the Pulse of Morning'

---

there is a kind of poetry written in one breath, a kind of poetry with war-torn eyes,

whitewashed poetry wrapped up in paper-boat death. a kind of poetry i could write,

if only, i could stand the sight of my own handwriting. instead, i wait for the scent of

rain to appear on this subtropical-grassland breeze. raindrops pound against the window

heavy, like thousands of feathers flapping against glass. with rivers rising like this,

how colourless the water seems. brown, crumbling termite mounds of slaked clay float

& dissipate. & the gates are closed. & the city bathed in moonlight is searched by boat.

dry rooftops & church towers protrude & point at the sky. pointing, as if to say, it makes

no difference between heaven and hill. pointing, as if to say, the centre shifts, the space

shatters, home is nothing now but a direction, a dimension, a little liminal prayer in waiting.

---

there is a silence sweeping over us, as though all the sounds are sinking in sump oil.

it’s spectral. it’s deliberate. it’s the present moment in a future of pain. the present pregnant

with the future’s history of obsolete beliefs. i want to go to where the amazon meets

the atlantic ocean. dip my gringo toe into the mar dulce, let my foreign skin taste

that sweet sea, feel fifty-million gallons of water rush between my feet. i want to dive into

a breath of fresh in a lung of salt. but that’s just too much water to write. and what of this

howl, this rain, this thunder, this oppression, this negation, this swansong, this flicker

of light in the shadows. these mothers carrying babies wrapped in blankets, boarding paper

boats on dark seas, tearing themselves away from all familiarity, tearing themselves away

from realities so terrifying it’s impossible to imagine anything worse existing.

---

there is a watershed moment taking shape. the rivers continue to swell, banks slump

under corrosion, corruption, & the pointing cries, forget heaven & high water, we’re all

better off fleeing for the hills. what was is now gone. rather than being drenched,

i drench everything in the language of salt-filled lungs. i am the shadow i am told i am.

& i no longer know if i am dreaming or if it just feels as though i am a dream. i remember

goiânia air in january, city-stewed & strong. there, in the foreground

were endless pastel-faded prèdios de apartmentos snarling their way up,

like rainforest seedlings seeking light. under the smudged canopy of south american

smog, a paper boat sailed in the sky. in my mouth i taste the facts we’ve been force-fed

from the start, fabricated liquid, salty & seething, turn to phlegm.

---

there are voices being silenced. the voices of humans choosing life.

there is a shameful entity gaslighted around us. i feel the lies, i hear them

roaring in the street. stories sikaflexed against themselves. curtailing the delivery

of truth. dangerous, like rivers rising. dangerous, like nourished white. dangerous,

like concentrated privilege. dangerous, like a breath taken under water. & today,

the gates are open. & today, the city no longer has towers for pointing.

& today, the city, it has arms outstretched & waiting. & today,

the people cry out, clearly, forcefully,

come, you may stand beside us on this

hill and face your distant destiny.

---

Stevi-Lee Alver is an Australian writer and tattoo artist. She lives in the middle of Brazil with her wife. She loves bush walks and waterfalls but misses the ocean.

'The Rock Cries Out' was published in Verity La, as part of the Ballina for Refugees Poetry Prize in 2019.