Something in the weariness wobbled
him to low aim, took bullet
into his own flesh, fumbling
like his boys on practice catgut strings.
Story goes, he came home, quiet.
Everyone wondering why his left arm
was wrapped, so large, what went on—
Finally, in frustration, he confessed his error,
not complaint, just information, then forever sleeved
another notch in the nothingness of the thirties.
From World War I to dust drug on,
my grandpas both distinguished
in the ways of wounds.
Each periled with sensibility of feeding the family.
Each prepared in moment of mire.
Each present in peril feeding us
in bullet-riddled stories surrounding
sweet fiddle feedings for our hearts.
WEALTH
When it was over
everything dust blown
chickens, ducks, horses, plows
Model A, Mark III
Dad still keeps the key
mounted to this tin shed wall.
Dust, then,
everything blown.
Dust, dust, dust.
Still they came around
asking for whatever he held
to feed,
eleven of them he carried
and the others, dozens.
Grandpa the generous
gave his last rhyme
in riddle rhythms
without capital consensus.
“I thought you were rich.”
They said.
As Granddad and his family
walked away from this
repossessed dugout,
chunk of ground,
earthen home,
flushed and empty,
chin up, Cherokee . . .
“Am, my family’s alive.”
He affirmed, shaking his head loose
from assumption
he had anything left to give.
As if he’d ever been fund wealthy
longer than a week.
Still Granny fed them
before they walked on.
He insisted. She couldn’t imagine
any other way.
It was their manner. Their spark.
Once, his land had put out,
he gave away ’cause others called,
split between closer relatives
who camped all alongside throughout.
Until it was done.
Back to corn, squash, beans, tomatoes.
Back to working for railroads,
farmers, farriers, friends, foes.
Back to the shoulder plow,
another hold, far from rooted homes,
rotted worlds behind them,
then the dust,
dust, dust, dust.
Still, in this world,
down generations now.
Others come wanting
something
they’re sure we have.
We pull out our checkbooks, cards,
overdraw ourselves.
Feed them.
KAOLIN
From dust comes dysentery;
comes dysentery cures
from clay.
White, red lingerings
linings for belly stops.
Kaolin, kaolin
light gray clay
softly soothing
all else matters.
From dust we may
to dust return, slip,
all the while soothing
itself—kaolin.
RAINMAKER
Daddy promised rain.
Each time he brought in turtles, always
conjured, stirred memories, brought help.
Said, somewhere in memory, wherein rain swells,
Se mu and Se lu ally, o he reh, nay hah,
Kichwa, Cherokee, Mohawk, Oendat still unite
through the Mother of the world—ourselves.
Somewhere in rain, World’s woes relinquish, float downstream
in muddles, undercurrent, overflow, ebb, eddy, wash clean—
clay or tin gutters in red-yellow Sun.
Gutters spilling rain into buckets,
into trenches dug around our caliche yard,
like World War II, Dad’s Ring of Fire
fieldwork,
for the infantry,
in rain.
Quenching his dry cotton memory,
Dust Bowl’s crazymaking drought dread.
Rain was always there,
hovering high, waiting for soothing song
to heal sunbaked soil, eroding.
Somewhere in dreams clatter turtle shells
turning World back inside herself
Cherokee, Creek recall memory, memory, memory—
back into ourselves—
raining.
Raining, here on Orinoco, here where moriche palm
hammock wrap Warao dreamtime, recollect Seminole
sleeping ’neath chickee, like palafito, stilted thatched
overhang where hammocks wing
night air over fluting crickets
loud as the amaranth, Caracas traffic,
maestoso as Florida amaranth still rising full.
Still there is rain.
Every river—rain, every creek, burn,
swamp, delta, pond, ocean—rain.
Rain holds memory, dreamtime,
all that was, will be—
turtled under canopies
from Atlantic to Caribbean blues,
hulling all the loss, all the beauty, all that was:
Carolina parakeets.
Passenger pigeons.
Venezuelan oily birds gone to conquistador war lights.
Canaries, still suffering souls for coal.
Above, below, rain returns realtime, now here,
empathy, nourishment, light, life—
Causer, taker of winged, splayer, separator of souls, washout—
even rain can’t help you.
But a human of the earth, place, time—memory—
takes a turtle—
Daddy called for rain
Daddy called for rain
Daddy called for rain
Daddy called for rain
Daddy called for rain
Daddy called for rain
Daddy called for rain
Daddy called for rain.
Like we all always do.
Always do.
Like we will always do.
Always do.
SHE SHAKES CHILIES FROM HER HAIR
She shakes red chilies from her hair,
wax black with slight red strands, thick enough
to stand, hold spicy seasoning until we fall.
Chilies she shakes loose, caught in leaning against red
ristas, hung loosely on rose adobe walls.
Summer we greet our spiciness from time before.
Shakes chilies she attracted, red as wasps,
something winging while she stands swinging
her heavy mane. Loosing it from flavor, season.
Spice in life rife with something only sisters share.
Red chilies she shakes from her hair.
COTTON
Standing stooped, walking rows
quicker than those dropped to knees
crawling on dry ground, kneeling,
knee bone wearing earth,
earth wearing knee bone,
neither better for the wear
on those too big, or too weak to stand.
Stoop labor in cotton
carries more weight to field end.
Cotton cupped pricked bolls
require finesse, proper pick.
Oblige ordinary people
extraordinary extreme effort.
Grandpa Vaughan playing Pitch
with the farrier, his heart out long before
/> Dad was ten. Playing Pitch, cards
while Granny and their kids
picked the fields clean,
choked on dust, dusted themselves,
boll held green to split prongs
calling for clever
get in, pull out
without cutting fingertips wide open.
Walking on knees,
or walking bent
dust, insects, sweat
cotton, cotton, cotton
until the owner offered
watermelon at wind up
—if he was a good man.
INDIGO
Lost like last night’s blues
leaning left, left—indigo.
Leavings, bits, pieces
scrap, twine
indigo.
Tally counts
penny shares.
Indigo.
Everyday
indigo, indigo, indigo.
Some shirttail cousin died,
all his pockets poked receipts
trade tobacco, cotton, indigo.
Blue slips
slipping through blue seam holes
fingered long blue in frustration,
fidgeting.
Slipping through the years,
like loss laces summer sky
indigo
indigo.
Indio.
In Dios.
Indigo.
TOBACCO RISE
Tobacco rises up ’neath Visqueen,
cool fog morning, coffee warmed
to wake where this field will take seedlings
hand over hand, settled down there.
We’ll raise ourselves reaching blossoms,
top-pinnacled blooms, lavender, sweet
melody-minded motion, step after step.
Rhythm walk we wade with, rows
like water, green, deep. Fog still suspended
wets grip, khakis, soaks cotton weave worn
to breathe in fields we’ll huff in
another month down the line. When
summer sends us hustling in heat
taking lugs, like tagging games, quicker
rounds than relays. Here, we’ll bring
all cylindrical pulls from broader
middles, thickening heights, until
all is gone, cured—then we’ll sleep.
THE WAILING ROOM
Always, when it seems just fine,
something stirs against living
steals those we least expect
sometimes murders
comes in fours
fully cornered, squared,
unnaturally man-made tight.
Creeps along skull hunting,
especially those who come with criers
wildly wailing their loss
in deathwatch chambers.
Quiet now, children. Quiet now.
All our grandparents, uncles,
most aunties, some cousins, three brothers—
before they’d even crawled—
friends, some of their kids, brothers,
my one song man—all gone.
Last to go my daughter-in-law’s father,
only a few days younger than me he was.
Strong as a bull bear, least what we thought.
Gone, gone.
Both her grandmas,
only grandpa she ever knew,
all gone in a short time.
Gone, gone, gone, she’s crying.
My girl, I wish you long life.
Quiet now, they’ll hear you.
Some of us see them walking in day,
more at night, all hesitate knowing
what surrounds us here.
Up to the deathbed, Ravenmocking.
Outside the wailing room, all of you—
Quiet now, children. Quiet now.
SHAPINGS
I.
A wooden house
rests on her shoulder.
She’s making her way up the road
paved with fractured glass,
on a hill steadily rising into
what looks like full mountains.
Buzzards flap like black sheets
in murky sky,
high above frozen peaks, and
around hillsides lined
with bracken ferns.
She’s reaching toward greenery
with her shoulders, lunging.
Tension from the structure
is pressing her into a curved shape.
Somewhere a breadboard is
wielded from an oven.
And small coals are falling
on hearth bricks below,
near her feet.
Heat
rushes her face and fingers.
And smell fresh baking aromas
tantalizing in waves.
Slicing, wrapping, and selling
this hot bread,
buys bread for her own brood.
She loses herself
in hot bread whiffs.
Scorching from the oven melts her
into a wrinkled-up form.
II.
What if when, barred with furniture,
the bedroom door
still bulges from blows
landing like bombers on PTS
when the world is at war.
And on the other side
he pounds, pounds,
pounds bloody wrath.
Rage fuming from terrible bottles
somehow impounded
behind his brow.
And then if ampules burst,
shattering, releasing fresh
adrenaline into fists,
she must lean
her back into wood,
hands over ears, numbing.
The quaking from blows
shaking her into a crumpled mess.
Late at night,
a stainless steel shelf
might glide her
back into a drawer.
She could be in a basement
with morticians circulating,
almost arctic breeze blowing.
Their scalpels rocking on tables
wheeled back and forth.
Something spins
gyrates past blue-coated lab
technicians, green sheet draped nurses.
Everywhere, blood drained bruising
blends with autopsy marks.
Formaldehyde petrifies her soft
flesh into metamorphosed rock.
Not far away, a marble stone
lies snugly between
green grass blades.
III.
She drifts near and
over, plastic daisies hanging
willows gently dangle rainy leaves,
slicing thick air
where she floats.
White crosses cover, and
gray granite spike
the clearing.
An empty space still lies
next to fresh mound of shoveled earth
beneath double-hearted stone
honoring blissful lovers.
But now she spins away
whirling,
whisking into the next world.
Not even wind can image her
into material shape.
IV.
She is the mother of us all
and the massive fruits of her womb.
While he presents the rulers
of the free, dictated, and corporate worlds
all at odds with one another.
As we await rebirth
she holds us.
As we await our fate
she catches us.
As we look for beauty
she comforts us.
As we amass our duty
she pleas with us.
As we hold dear all that is sacred,
all the children of the world
and those that follow,
she reminds us of
what we were
meant to be
and once again offers us
warm bread while
breathing us back to life.
As we await an answer
she loves us.
Mustn’t we love her, too?
Not even wind can image her
back into material shape.
AMERICA, I SING YOU BACK
for Phil Young and my father Robert Hedge Coke;
for Whitman and Hughes
America, I sing back. Sing back what sung you in.
Sing back the moment you cherished breath.
Sing you home into yourself and back to reason.
Before America began to sing, I sung her to sleep,
held her cradleboard, wept her into day.
My song gave her creation, prepared her delivery,
held her severed cord beautifully beaded.
My song helped her stand, held her hand for first steps,
nourished her very being, fed her, placed her three sisters strong.
My song comforted her as she battled my reason
broke my long-held footing sure, as any child might do.
As she pushed herself away, forced me to remove myself,
as I cried this country, my song grew roses in each tear’s fall.
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