Wooden woman waiting outside of a grocery store
in North Berkeley

Made tired by time,
chips of wood had fallen in masses from her body,
entire aspects of her anatomy had eroded away--
most of her nose, her left ear,
her right cheek, her *******, half her stomach

She had been a tree,
torn apart, reassembled
in the form of a female human being,
no sign of life in her sightless gaze

I guess she’s gone now,
after all those years

I went to look for her
and found only an antique shop
with a peculiar name
at the address where she should have been

I would have liked to have seen her
one last time, this statue
that fascinated and frightened me as a child

I’m glad she’s gone, though--
She resemble less and less a woman,
was becoming clearly merely wood
cut into tiny pieces and glued together

She resembled less and less a woman,
and I’m glad she was killed
before she ceased to be art

You start to scream, like we're making a scene
I must remind you this is, not a movie
You couldn't help but play the queen
You left them, all at your feet

I've come to believe it, I've come to believe it
It's like my mouth opened over the pavement
But fake as you can, tell them all why you started this panic

You were a ghost, from late October
I will be one come summer
I saw this world like a paper
And you could not ever stay here

Now I believe it, now I believe it
It's like my mouth opened over the pavement
and how could you think I, I wouldn't know this?

Speak quite a storm, with a small mouth
and I barely sleep in my, in my own house.
Stare, stare at me and I, and I might transform

All hail the queen still,
I've never seen a witch this mean.

Speak quite a storm, with a small mouth
and I barely sleep in my, in my own house.
Fake as you can, tell them all why you started this panic

Plain woman in a checkered dress,
Trapped on a windy hill
With a man whose every thought
Was crops and cows
And bad weather coming,
You cooked every meal
On time,
Served lunches to the field
Exactly when the clock said "12."

More though,
You drove "flagger" to the men,
Moved trucks and tractors to the fields,
Raised two boys and two girls,
God-fearing citizens,
Buried one in disbelief,
And then moved on
To the routine.

I know your secret, though.
That swept-neat farm:
White buildings,
Green roofs,
Red barns
Belied you in their unnatural order.
You of the Romantic Heart,
You of passion and desire held secret.
Beside your chair in that sparse house
Stood a stack of romance novels
In easy reach
To lend escape
To harsh realities.

Ah! The stolen moments!
Pink-hued bliss of passions,
Handsome strangers,
Waiting there beside your chair
To free you
Of a dry and wind-whipped land.

What pleasures you enjoyed
You stole from books.

What ecstasies you managed,
Came ninety-nine cents a copy,
Wrapped in brown paper,
In a galvanized milking pail,
Five miles from the post office.

Lydia, don't fret.
Don Quixote's spirit
Understands.