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      March 24, 2009PirahaGrace Bruenderman

      Somewhere in Brazil
      near the Amazon River
      a tribe called the Piraha
      lives and quivers
      runs and slithers
      as they curl and cling
      to the Amazon bank
      they sing as much as they talk
      they “ohhhm” as much as they walk.

      Because the Piraha have no language
      for numbers or feelings
      just colors and singing
      and chanting and breathing.
      “I love, I hate, I miss”
      don’t exist.
      I feel I feel they must
      hate with no way of saying it
      love with no way of praying it.
      They’re forced to look to love
      and if they hurt they must scream
      and sometimes I wish we were the same.

      Because right now I’m trying
      to piece into words
      a pain in my stomach that cannot
      be a verb, and saying “I hurt”
      isn’t going to cover it
      this time.

      I want everyone to see
      my sick slick squished
      blood ball of a heart
      b-b-b-bounce from its socket
      like the rocket that it was
      ripped stripped from deep rich soil
      watch my blood boil
      and know that there are no words for this…
      but I’ll try.

      William Carlos Williams,
      can you tell them
      that there is no poetry but in things,
      that there are no ideas but in things.
      And if I looked how I felt inside
      you’d have to break my teeth and
      watch me still smile wide.
      And if I scream,
      is that still an idea?
      Is that still po-e-try?
      I have seen more poetry
      than I have ever heard.

      I see this rag-covered man
      pushing a shopping cart
      full of cans
      trying to make
      end-to-ends meet.
      My eighty-six-year-old neighbor
      planting geraniums and going crazy.
      A chubby little sixth-grade girl
      sitting at her lunch table
      waiting for no one.
      A boy letting go of my hand
      telling me
      he can’t hold me anymore
      and there were and are
      no words for that.

      I am Pira-ha-HA.
      Singing more than I talk
      ooohming more than I walk.
      Because sometimes the way you say it
      say way you it
      the way you ohh chh ohm
      the way you tss-tss-tss
      the way you pop pop pop
      is more important than
      what you say.

      There’s a man,
      limping down
      the side of the road
      missing an arm
      trying hard not to starve,
      and I both pity and envy him,
      because at least his pain is visible.
      A National Geographic photographer
      could click-clack-attack his pain
      with a double-wide lens
      (t-t-t-t-tss)
      and the whole world might frown
      for a moment,
      scratch their brows for a moment
      the whole world might
      understand for a moment.

      There is a tribe in Brazil
      who feels too,
      but they have no words,
      they can only show you
      they sing more than they walk
      they ohm more than they talk,
      and sometimes we do too.

      And we do not always need
      the words, the photos, or a centerfold
      to prove it.
      So, for the love of god,
      ohm, ohhhhhhm it.