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
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