In The Same Air a spoken word poem by James Navé

In the Same Air  Old redemption had little to do  with the maroon strand land  when I was young. I never knew  barbed wire or porcelain tea cups  during that delicate growing time.  The cloud foxes played grace  tricks on the new spring grass  where bones still remembered  winter. The possibility of music  in my cloisonné dreams clashed  with Mr. Arrowwood, who shot  lesser night hawks above the trees.  On Sundays, after church, I ate  mashed potatoes with gravy  in the same air where my Grandfather  sat close to his 12-gauge shotgun  in the corner. Even now, I chime between redemption and salvation  there on the hill where Jesus hung.