Monday, June 22, 2015

Trying to protect the house

Trying to protect the house from heat,
Riding ladders, she paints a white roof,
Yes, and during heat waves, hangs tarps.
It is her ambition to refrain from power,
Not to use the loud machine that sits
Gurgling in every moneyed window.

This is privilege thinking, of course.
Out across the world, they that live

Pounding cassava or rice in stone bowls
Rarely think of heat but that it's there,
Older than plants, animals, themselves:
The other side of cold, a condition imposed
Everywhere at once. As if a fish
Could think of water, or a bird, air.
The privileged swim in personhood and ease,

Toss a ball and kids in the van and go,
Heavy foot on pedal, wheel and tarmac, so
Even changing the very taste of seas.

Have you nightlong sat, polyester off,
On your hand nothing, sunset to sunrise
Under the stars' turning, wordless, empty, yet
Satisfied? Her roof gleaming, she would dare hope
Even a little thing may help pound rice.





Other mother's day


She is almost thirty, and arrives
Here, where waves are sold to tourists,
Ever stronger, ever more sure than

I, who look back, now, most of the time.
She stretches, cat-like, knowing as she does

All time and objects are hers. How am I? I
Lie a little, watching a gull sail off,
Mention the easy sunrise, hiding a limp
Or cough or skip of the heart, or plan for
Shedding of things no longer holding me,
Things my hands once understood, or

Things I knew to say, sing, throw, mold, be.
Here is a sand dollar. It's not chipped,
I'll take it to her. I'm a passageway now,
Really a conduit, a path, a test, a mirror.
The young one looks back, smiling.
Yes, I have evidence. I've done well.




Tuesday, June 16, 2015

Three deep breaths


Three deep breaths, palms together,
Here in her room, or elsewhere, she may
Rise and take. A habit she has formed,
Even as most of her ideas, ideals,
Even her so cherished findings, hard found,

Deducted, inducted, reasoned, debated, polished,
Even those most like faith, as taught her,
Even those most like science, measured, observed,
Peeled one by one: a human desert, she.

By three deep breaths, she centers somehow: how?
Reality itself a question she's no longer asking,
Eating and sleeping themselves provisional.
All she bothers to call caring is now to listen
To breath, room sounds, outside sounds, to
Her friends, their worries unpacked, their voices
Spending both hope and pain. She bows.




In season

What she will do today is walk and take in
Hand her apple staff, leaning on it
As she does now, more and yet more
The nearer arriving to a last heart beat

She comes, and check for vegs and berries.
Here are yet more peas; she's not as
Eager for them as three days ago.

With a bit more busy-ness, she'd go
In for blanching those. Onions and
Leeks too small yet; almost out of
Lettuce; tomatoes on the other hand

Doing well, and some ready already.
Oh, she could cut kale, collards or chard

This morning like any late spring morning,
Only she's hungry for something more.
Do what she will, there are yet no pears,
Apples, zukes, potatoes, corn, or beans.
You must make with what you have.