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    Absolute Trust in the Goodness of the Earth

    Page 3
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      Until

      They were done.

      I am connected

      To all

      Of this

      By

      My great

      Grandmother’s Native

      Name

      Tallulah, i.e.,

      Basket maker,

      Which

      Turning fifty

      I began claiming

      As

      My own

      As I claim

      My kinswoman

      Spider &

      The brilliant

      Ancestral

      Body

      Of

      Her art.

      Let Change Play God

      A Native Person Looks up from the Plate

      (Or, owning how we must look to a

      person who has become our food)

      They are eating

      Us.

      To step out of our doors

      Is to feel

      Their teeth

      On our throats.

      They are gobbling

      Up our

      Lands

      Our waters

      Our weavings

      & our artifacts.

      They are nibbling

      At the noses

      Of

      Our canoes

      & moccasins.

      They drink our oil

      Like cocktails

      & lick down

      Our jewelry

      Like icicles.

      They are siphoning

      Our songs.

      They are devouring

      Us.

      We brown, black,

      Red, and yellow

      Unruly

      white

      Morsels

      Creating Life

      Until we die:

      Spread out in the chilling sun

      That is

      Their plate.

      They are eating

      Us raw

      Without sauce.

      Everywhere we

      Have been

      We are no more.

      Everywhere we are

      Going

      They do not want.

      They are eating

      Us whole.

      The glint of their

      Teeth

      The light

      That beckons

      Us to table

      Where only they

      Will dine.

      They are devouring

      Us.

      Our histories.

      Our heroes.

      Our ancestors.

      And all appetizing

      Youngsters

      To come.

      Where they graze

      Among the

      People

      Who create

      Who labor

      Who live

      In beauty

      And walk

      So lightly

      On the earth—

      There is nothing

      Left.

      Not even our roots

      Reminding us

      To bloom.

      Now they have wedged

      The whole

      Of the earth

      Between their

      Cheeks.

      Their

      Wide bellies

      Crazily

      Clad

      In stolen

      Goods

      Are near

      To bursting

      With

      The fine meal

      Gone foul

      That is us.

      The Anonymous Caller

      The anonymous caller

      Begins

      His diatribe

      You shitty

      Bitch

      Ends it

      With

      A threat:

      I Know

      Where

      You

      Live.

      I can tell

      By his

      Voice

      That he is

      Young

      Unaware

      That

      As far

      As Calamity

      Is concerned

      As far

      As Death

      Is concerned

      All of us

      Share

      The same

      Address;

      All

      Of us

      Live

      In the

      Same

      House.

      I Was So Puzzled by the Attacks

      I was so

      Puzzled

      By

      The attacks.

      It was as if

      They believed

      We were

      In a race

      To succeed

      Someone

      Other

      Than

      Death

      Was at

      The

      Finish

      Line.

      At First, It Is True, I Thought There Were Only Peaches & Wild Grapes

      To my delight

      I have found myself

      Born

      Into a garden

      Of many fruits.

      At first, it is true,

      I thought

      There were only

      Peaches & wild grapes.

      That watermelon

      Lush, refreshing

      Completed my range.

      But now, Child,

      I can tell you

      There is such

      A creature

      As the wavy green

      Cherimoya

      The black loudsmelling

      & delicious

      Durian

      The fleshy orange mango

      And the spiky, whitehearted

      Soursop.

      In my garden

      Imagine!

      At first I thought

      I could live

      On blue plums

      That fresh yellow pears

      Might become

      My sole delight.

      I was naïve, Child.

      Infinite is

      The garden

      Of many fruits.

      Tasting them

      I myself

      Spread out

      To cover

      The earth.

      Savoring each &

      Every

      One—date, fig, persimmon, passion fruit—

      I am everywhere

      At home.

      May 23, 1999

      There is nothing

      To say

      I am content.

      Zelie

      On her blue bike

      Has gone off

      To feed

      The dogs.

      Reverend E. in Her Red Dress

      Rev. E.

      In her red dress

      White hair

      Shining

      Black skin

      Glowing

      Standing at the door

      Of our History

      Standing at the gateway

      To

      Whatever lies

      Ahead.

      We see you

      At last for who you truly are:

      Daughter, Sister, Woman, Lover,

      Mother, Friend

      Your thoughts

      Leaping

      Silver

      As fish

      Brilliant as fire

      Your laughter

      Like your sorrow

      A flashing

      Stream

      From which

      We drink.

      We see you

      & know you reflect

      The Divine Mother

      She who gives birth

      To all

      And destroys all

      At the end.

      If we lived in

      India

      We would

      Worship you

      There, pilgrims

      Stay gone

      Wear rags

      Eat handouts

      Lock their hair

      Pray beside

      Rivers, holy stones

      & shrines

      Begging the Universe

      For a single glimpse

      Of you.

      Divine Mother representing


      The Life Force

      The Earth

      And all that She

      Brings forth

      Keep on praying

      For us

      Earth’s children

      That you

      So clearly

      Love

      Help us to

      Love one another

      To shed our fears

      Of unworthiness

      Our habits

      Of self-hatefulness

      Our greed

      To be accepted

      As something

      Other than

      What we are.

      Divine Mother

      Keep on praying

      For us

      All Earthlings

      All children

      Of this awesome

      Place

      Not one of us

      Knowing

      Why we’re here

      Except to Be.

      Keep on praying for us.

      Your children

      The children of Earth

      Are starving

      For the sight

      Of something

      Real

      Dying for the sound

      Of something

      True.

      Pray for us

      To know

      That nothing

      Stops a lie

      Like being

      Yourself.

      For Rev. Eloise Oliver, minister of the East Bay Church of Religious Science, Oakland, California

      All the People Who Work for Me & My Dog Too

      All the People Who Work for Me & My Dog Too

      All the people who work for me

      & my dog too

      Think

      I’m crazy

      Rushing to

      & fro

      Doing this

      & that

      Never really

      Still

      Until

      I absolutely

      Sit.

      They think

      These people

      Who work for me

      & my dog

      Too

      That I have

      Lost

      My mind.

      I’m always sending them

      On errands

      I could do

      Myself.

      My dog sometimes

      Fetching a ball

      Looks at me

      With such pity

      In her brown eyes.

      My cat

      Enduring the madness

      No longer

      Bailed out;

      Went to live

      With an aunt.

      I feel myself

      Slowly

      Coming awake

      In the rush.

      Seeing the gingko tree

      When it waves

      Responding to seduction

      By tomato

      Noticing

      José’s mustache

      & eyes

      When I ask him

      To fly

      Down

      The mountain

      For an egg.

      The Snail Is My Power Animal

      While I was visiting the Amazon, a giant snail crawled uphill to lie in the doorway of my tambo (hut) every morning. According to shamanic wisdom, the animal who comes to you at least four times while you are on a medicine quest is your power animal.

      That’s the thing

      About poems

      You never know

      When

      They’re going to crawl up

      The hill

      Stick out their wrinkled

      Necks

      & rest in your

      Front door.

      I was just here

      Feeling

      Overdressed

      That I am

      Too warm

      Yet craving

      Hot soup.

      Between the

      Boiling

      Of the soup

      & the tasting

      Of it

      I see my dog

      Shift her body

      Wondering why we’re always

      On the road

      I see the house

      I’ve made

      Substantial

      Solid

      That I carry on my back

      Like a shell.

      In Everything I Do

      In everything I do

      There is an animal.

      A cat, a dog

      A snake

      A bird

      Or a chameleon.

      An elephant

      A turtle

      A chicken or

      A mouse.

      The monkey

      Is my special

      Love

      My totem

      Ever since

      I was born

      & they commented

      How much

      I resembled

      One.

      Then I grew up

      To learn

      How very

      Clever

      Intelligent

      Wise

      Funny

      & sweetly

      Beautiful

      The monkey

      Is

      & how

      It is tortured.

      The Writer’s Life

      During those times

      I possess the imagination to ignore

      The chaos

      I live

      The writer’s life:

      I lie in bed

      Gazing out

      The window.

      To my right

      I notice

      My neighbor

      Is always painting

      And repainting

      His house.

      To my left

      My other neighbor

      Speaks of too much shade

      Of tearing

      Out

      Our trees.

      Sometimes

      I paint

      My house

      Orange & apricot

      Butterscotch & plum—

      Sometimes

      I speak up

      To save

      The trees.

      The days

      I like best

      Have

      Meditation

      Lovemaking

      Eating scones

      With my lover

      In them.

      Walks on the beach

      Picnics in the

      Hammock

      That overlooks

      The sea.

      Hiking in the hills

      Leaning on

      Our

      Walking sticks.

      Writers perfect

      The art

      Of doing nothing

      So beautifully.

      We know

      If there is

      A butterfly

      Anywhere

      For miles

      Around

      It will come

      Hover

      & maybe

      Land

      On our head.

      If there is a bird

      Even flying aimless

      In the next

      County

      It will not only

      Appear

      Where we are

      But sing.

      If there is

      A story

      It will

      Cough

      In the middle

      Of our

      Lazy

      Day

      Only once

      Maybe more

      & announce

      Itself.

      Grace

      Grace

      Gives me a day

      Too beautiful

      I had thought

      To stay indoors

      & yet

      Washing my dishes

      Straightening

      My shelves

      Finally

      Throwing out

      The wilted

      Onions

      Shrunken garlic

      Cloves

      I discover

      I am happy

      To be inside

      Looking out.

      This, I think,

      Is wealth.

      Ju
    st this choosing

      Of how

      A beautiful day

      Is spent.

      Loss of Vitality

      Loss of vitality

      Is a sign

      That

      Things have gone

      Wrong.

      It is like

      Sitting on

      A sunny pier

      Wondering whether

      To swing

      Your feet.

      A time of dullness

      Deadness

      Sodden enthusiasm

      When

      This exists

      At all.

      Decay.

      You wonder:

      Was I ever “on”

      Bright with life

      My thoughts

      Spinning out

      Confident

      As

      Sunflowers?

      Did I wiggle

      My ears

      & jiggle my toes

      From sheer

      Delight?

      Is the girl

      Grinning fiercely

      In the old photo

      Really me?

      Loss of vitality

      Signals emptiness

      But let

      Me tell you:

      Depletion can be

      Just the thing.

      You are using

      Have used

      Up

      The old life

      The old way.

      Now will rush in

      The energetic,

      The flexible,

      The unmistakable

      Knowing

      That life is life

      Not mood.

      Until I Was Nearly Fifty

      Until I was

      Nearly fifty

      I barely thought

      Of age.

      But now

      As I approach

      Becoming

      An elder

      I find I want

      To give all

      That I know

      To youth.

      Those who sit

      Skeptical

      With hooded

      Eyes

      Wondering

      If there really

      Is

      A path ahead

      & whether

      There really

      Are

      Elders

      Upon it.

      Yes. We are there

      Just ahead

      Of you.

      The path you are on

      Is full of bends

      Of crooks

      Potholes

      Distracting noises

      & insults

      Of all kinds.

      The path one is on

      Always is.

      But there we are

      Just out of view

      Looking back

      Concerned

      For you.

      I see my dearest

      Friend

      At fifty-one

      Her hair

      Now

     


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