My sister and I are sewing
a red shirt for my daughter.
She pins, I hem, we pass the scissors
back & forth across the table.
Children should not wear red,
a man once told me.
Young girls should not wear red.
In some countries it is the color
of death; in others passion,
in others war, in others anger,
in others the sacrifice
of shed blood. A girl should be
a veil, a white shadow, bloodless
as a moon on water; not
dangerous; she should
keep silent and avoid
red shoes, red stockings, dancing.
Dancing in red shoes will kill you.
ii
But red is our color by birth-
right, the color of tense joy
& spilled pain that joins us
to each other. We stoop over
the table, the constant pull
of the earth's gravity furrowing
our bodies, tugging us down.
The shirt we make is stained
with our words, our stories.
The shadows the light casts
on the wall behind us multiply:
This is the procession
of old leathery mothers,
the moon's last quarter
before the blank night,
mothers like worn gloves
wrinkled to the shapes of their lives,
passing the work from hand to hand,
mother to daughter,
a long thread of red blood, not yet broken.
iii
Let me tell you the story
about the Old Woman.
First: she weaves your body.
Second: she weaves your soul.
Third: she is hated & feared,
though not by those who know her.
She is the witch you burned
by daylight and crept from your home
to consult & bribe at night. The love
that tortured you you blamed on her.
She can change her form,
and like your mother she is covered with fur.
The black Madonna
studded with miniature
arms & legs, like tin stars,
to whom they offer agony
and red candles when there is no other
help or comfort, is also her.
iv
It is January, it's raining, this gray
ordinary day. My
daughter, I would like
your shirt to be just a shirt,
no charms or fables. But fables
and charms swarm here
in this January world,
entrenching us like snow, and few
are friendly to you; though
they are strong,
potent as viruses
or virginal angels dancing
on the heads of pins,
potent as the hearts
of whores torn out
by the roots because they were thought
to be solid gold, or heavy
as the imaginary
jewels they used to split
the heads of Jews for.
It may not be true
that one myth cancels another.
Nevertheless, in a corner
of the hem, where it will not be seen,
where you will inherit
it, I make this tiny
stitch, my private magic.
v
The shirt is finished: red
with purple flowers and pearl
buttons. My daughter puts it on,
hugging the color
which means nothing to her
except that it is warm
and bright. In her bare
feet she runs across the floor,
escaping from us, her new game,
waving her red arms
in delight, and the air
explodes with banners.
Night Poem
There is nothing to be afraid of,
it is only the wind
changing to the east, it is only
your father the thunder
your mother the rain
In this country of water
with its beige moon damp as a mushroom,
its drowned stumps and long birds
that swim, where the moss grows
on all sides of the trees
and your shadow is not your shadow
but your reflection,
your true parents disappear
when the curtain covers your door.
We are the others,
the ones from under the lake
who stand silently beside your bed
with our heads of darkness.
We have come to cover you
with red wool,
with our tears and distant whispers.
You rock in the rain's arms,
the chilly ark of your sleep,
while we wait, your night
father and mother,
with our cold hands and dead flashlight,
knowing we are only
the wavering shadows thrown
by one candle, in this echo
you will hear twenty years later.
All Bread
All bread is made of wood,
cow dung, packed brown moss,
the bodies of dead animals, the teeth
and backbones, what is left
after the ravens. This dirt
flows through the stems into the grain,
into the arm, nine strokes
of the axe, skin from a tree,
good water which is the first
gift, four hours.
Live burial under a moist cloth,
a silver dish, the row
of white famine bellies
swollen and taut in the oven,
lungfuls of warm breath stopped
in the heat from an old sun.
Good bread has the salt taste
of your hands after nine
strokes of the axe, the salt
taste of your mouth, it smells
of its own small death, of the deaths
before and after.
Lift these ashes
into your mouth, your blood;
to know what you devour
is to consecrate it,
almost. All bread must be broken
so it can be shared. Together
we eat this earth.
You Begin
You begin this way:
this is your hand,
this is your eye,
that is a fish, blue and flat
on the paper, almost
the shape of an eye.
This is your mouth, this is an O
or a moon, whichever
you like. This is yellow.
Outside the window
is the rain, green
because it is summer, and beyond that
the trees and then the world,
which is round and has only
the colors of these nine crayons.
This is the world, which is fuller
and more difficult to learn than I have said.
You are right to smudge it that way
with the red and then
the orange: the world burns.
Once you have learned these words
you will learn that there are more
words than you can ever learn.
The word hand floats above your hand
like a small cloud over a lake.
The word hand anchors
your hand to this table,
your hand is a warm stone
I hold between two words.
This is your hand, these are my hands, this is the world,
which is round but not flat and has more colors
than we can see.
It begins, it has an end
,
this is what you will
come back to, this is your hand.
From TRUE STORIES (1981)
True Stories
i
Don't ask for the true story;
why do you need it?
It's not what I set out with
or what I carry.
What I'm sailing with,
a knife, blue fire,
luck, a few good words
that still work, and the tide.
ii
The true story was lost
on the way down to the beach, it's something
I never had, that black tangle
of branches in a shifting light,
my blurred footprints
filling with salt
water, this handful
of tiny bones, this owl's kill;
a moon, crumpled papers, a coin,
the glint of an old picnic,
the hollows made by lovers
in sand a hundred
years ago: no clue.
iii
The true story lies
among the other stories,
a mess of colors, like jumbled clothing
thrown off or away,
like hearts on marble, like syllables, like
butchers' discards.
The true story is vicious
and multiple and untrue
after all. Why do you
need it? Don't ever
ask for the true story.
Landcrab I
A lie, that we come from water.
The truth is we were born
from stones, dragons, the sea's
teeth, as you testify,
with your crust and jagged scissors.
Hermit, hard socket
for a timid eye,
you're a soft gut scuttling
sideways, a blue skull,
round bone on the prowl.
Wolf of treeroots and gravelly holes,
a mouth on stilts,
the husk of a small demon.
Attack, voracious
eating, and flight:
it's a sound routine
for staying alive on edges.
Then there's the tide, and that dance
you do for the moon
on wet sand, claws raised
to fend off your mate,
your coupling a quick
dry clatter of rocks.
For mammals
with their lobes and tubers,
scruples and warm milk,
you've nothing but contempt.
Here you are, a frozen scowl
targeted in flashlight,
then gone: a piece of what
we are, not all,
my stunted child, my momentary
face in the mirror,
my tiny nightmare.
Landcrab II
The sea sucks at its own
edges, in and out with the moon.
Tattered brown fronds
(shredded nylon stockings,
feathers, the remnants of hands)
wash against my skin.
As for the crab, she's climbed
a tree and sticks herself
to the bark with her adroit
spikes; she jerks
her stalked eyes at me, seeing
a meat shadow,
food or a predator.
I smell the pulp
of her body, faint odor
of rotting salt,
as she smells mine,
working those martian palps:
seawater in leather.
I'm a category, a noun
in a language not human,
infra-red in moonlight,
a tidal wave in the air.
Old fingernail, old mother,
I'm up to scant harm
tonight; though you don't care,
you're no-one's metaphor,
you have your own paths
and rituals, frayed snails
and soaked nuts, waterlogged sacks
to pick over, soggy chips and crusts.
The beach is all yours, wordless
and ripe once I'm off it,
wading towards the moored boats
and blue lights of the dock.
Postcard
I'm thinking about you. What else can I say?
The palm trees on the reverse
are a delusion; so is the pink sand.
What we have are the usual
fractured Coke bottles and the smell
of backed-up drains, too sweet,
like a mango on the verge
of rot, which we have also.
The air clear sweat, mosquitoes
& their tracks; birds, blue & elusive.
Time comes in waves here, a sickness, one
day after the other rolling on;
I move up, it's called
awake, then down into the uneasy
nights but never
forward. The roosters crow
for hours before dawn, and a prodded
child howls & howls
on the pocked road to school.
In the hold with the baggage
there are two prisoners,
their heads shaved by bayonets, & ten crates
of queasy chicks. Each spring
there's a race of cripples, from the store
to the church. This is the sort of junk
I carry with me; and a clipping
about democracy from the local paper.
Outside the window
they're building the damn hotel,
nail by nail, someone's
crumbling dream. A universe that includes you
can't be all bad, but
does it? At this distance
you're a mirage, a glossy image
fixed in the posture
of the last time I saw you.
Turn you over, there's the place
for the address. Wish you were
here. Love comes
in waves like the ocean, a sickness which goes on
& on, a hollow cave
in the head, filling & pounding, a kicked ear.
Nothing
Nothing like love to put blood
back in the language,
the difference between the beach and its
discrete rocks & shards, a hard
cuneiform, and the tender cursive
of waves; bone & liquid fishegg, desert
& saltmarsh, a green push
out of death. The vowels plump
again like lips or soaked fingers, and the fingers
themselves move around these
softening pebbles as around skin. The sky's
not vacant and over there but close
against your eyes, molten, so near
you can taste it. It tastes of
salt. What touches
you is what you touch.
From NOTES TOWARDS A POEM THAT CAN NEVER BE WRITTEN
A Conversation
The man walks on the southern beach
with sunglasses and a casual shirt
and two beautiful women.
He's a maker of machines
for pulling out toenails,
sending electric shocks
through brains or genitals.
He doesn't test or witness,
he only sells. My dear lady,
he says, You don't know
those people. There's nothing
else they understand. What could I do?
she said. Why was he at that party?
Flying Inside Your Own Body
Your lungs fill & spread themselves,
wings of pink blood, and your bones
empty themselves and become hollow.
When you breathe in you'll lift like a balloon
and your heart is light too & huge,
beating with pure joy, pure helium.
The sun's white winds blow through you,
you see the earth now as an oval jewel,
radiant & seablue with love.
It's only in dreams you can do this.
Waking, your heart is a shaken fist,
a fine dust clogs the air you breathe in;
the sun's a hot copper weight pressing straight
down on the thick pink rind of your skull.
It's always the moment just before gunshot.
You try & try to rise but you cannot.
Torture
What goes on in the pauses
of this conversation?
Which is about free will
and politics and the need for passion.
Selected Poems II (1976-1986) Page 4