Becky knew Eli ha taken another wife
leaving her alone on the sprawling
farm, Eli Jr. doing most of the chores,
selling **** at the crossroads &
trying to **** his sister, Becky Junior,
who was too young & clueless for him
to get very far & she loathed the aroma
of ****. Eli's youngest Joshua already
evincing signs of effeminacy, Becky
attributing it to Eli's long absences; she'd
conjured in her head her wayward spouse
drinking & reveling with naked women,
rock star groupies and movie strumpets;
having flown over to see for herself, she
knew she was right.   Hearing Eli had
married again brought an inexplicable
sense of relief, & taking up her needle
work, Becky sat in the porch rocker
waiting for her two oldest to show up
for supper. Becky Junior stuck doing
Eli's chores while he ***** little Emma
from the next farm over; I'll not be
gettin' ina heaven, Eli Simple! the girl
scolded. Eli Jr, grinned, 'English Heaven,'
he said, 'That's where my father is.'
the girl's face paled & her pink mouth
swung open, "That rightly be hell!
I seen the little lit-up boxes they all
be talking to now. Some's got wires
comin' right out they head, like men
from Mars..." Emma was talking while
Junior rolled a blunt with a corn husk.
Men from Mars & little boxes - u've
got some imagination, missy, he said,
blowing the smoke at her; coming
beside him, they lit up the barn with
the pungent odor of Jr.'s Homegrown.
It's them English, She railed, Turnin'
theyselves into robots! Shut up, he said
at last, My dad throws paint on canvas
& he's good at it too, so I don't need...
feeling the vibration in his pocket, he
knew he to take the call. Here, smoke.
I've gotta go take a ***. He went out &
Emma lay back smoking contentedly,
giving herself the chills with thoughts
of evil English robots all connected by
wires. Figuring she'd keep, Junior went
down to the crossroad & didn't get back
until after sundown. Emma was gone,
but left a note scrawled on notebook
paper: 'I went home to supper emma'.
Feeling peckish himself, he picked up
the fat roach she'd left & lit it with a
kitchen match, smoking as he walked.

My mothers tell me
not with pearls in pretty velvet boxes
or words in leather-bound books
proclaimed,
but in buried memory and coiled threads
stitched together over generations—
who i am

head down pattern
repeated, deaf to its echo
ocean blue over prairie wheat over
thick mud brown turns murky
winding spinning battening
fabric woven—

a kind of fate

destined, we are women without men—
all to our children, knotted hands uncomplaining, holding
deepest love so deep it holds too tightly
standing boldly outside
the measure

obedient, we are women armed—
sharp eyed ironclad we stubbornly
manage life
mitigating disaster, securing the fray
keeping watch

doomed, we are women hard-boiled—
knowing loss, we look neither left nor right
reaching only to gods
and goddesses for friendship,
lonesome

until one day empty
and by the grace of god, I pause—
turn my eyes
and see my sisters too

not my mother, but
those before
were teachers of stillness—
to choose it, feel whole in it
bow to it
and wait…

across oceans
my mothers wrote their stories with pencil,
or fingers in thin air
words carried, indelibly
over miles and mountains
in strands and time—

waiting to be found

I see them sometimes
caught in a turning breeze
suspended in Fall colours

clinging to another mother’s web

I feel their warmth in the weak winter sun
more persistent now
following the horizon

I hear them in my dreams, the anguished ones
lead-heavy and fallen
overgrown with raveled life
and rusted

On my tongue melting like honeycake

Rising in wood fire
and spring soil

they are my words now
to tend to, crystalline
and holy

I wait
and i sing

born into an ethic of separate
and apart, knows nothing of the promise of oneness
and the slow release of held breath when I glimpse
that I’m not.

my foremothers in the summer kitchen, preserving
(1 part berries : 1 part sugar, splash of lemon)
lived the kinship of shovel sun soil hands
jam on buttered bread.

heads bowed under kerchief, shushing children, devoted
(1 part fervour : 1 part obedience, splash of sorrow)
sang the hymns of their mothers on hard benches in one voice,
one breath.

but the air is made of argon too, and contains
the breath of all others, the ones not on hard benches, or making jam
no lines in the sand made of belief or blood
not them, just us.

today with my own shovel, sifting through roots and buds
(1 part rage : 1 part faith, splash of sorrow)
I sing “Ain’t got no, I got life” at full volume with Nina, two voices
same breath.

I am
born on the prairie, stark clad
blue sky desert, blacktop desert, canola yellow desert
small in the great space
between us

I am
born of the mountains, wrapped
in forest standing strong-faced and tall, my
companions, rooted
my teachers

I am
born of beloved lands lost
many times over so faith becomes place
and we drift—
spirits uprooted

I am
born into the laws of my fathers, solemn
like their God, and righteous
holding fast to the book of their fathers
unyielding

I am
born of old world order imposed
on new world freedom—
the image shifts
and I blur

I am
born of the rhythm of my mothers
of life-force and flutter
small hands and steaming pots in hot kitchens
my church

I am
born of bleached fluorescent flicker
drawn into her whirling hurry
longing for rainfall and
idle play

I am
born of ghosts and tiny monsters
adrift in the hollow that bears their aching past
and tangled present
alien

I am
born of memory, my fingers carry secrets
daughter of the many mothers before me, their lives
tell the story
of mine

I am
born of the unknown, a swell in the stream
that spills into the ocean, I am
mother of many daughters
to come

...tell me who you are

the day before grief pulled up
with moving van and solemn promise
it was summer,
and i was wearing a cotton print dress,
yellow flowers and bare feet
or maybe it was my mother

that day, the day before
she was swirling slow motion
like in a movie, face to the sun flashing
through young leaves
making patterns,
arms wide

that day, the day before
i snuck a zwieback from the summer kitchen
and watched melting butter make
golden pools,
some dripped onto my dress
but i didn’t worry

that day, the day before the cold snap
wicked north wind,
the sun shone
and we were warm

butter still melts our hearts

to take pieces of land, like pie
purchased and stolen, like monopoly
and make it into something else,
like Europe

this was our promise

so like good soldiers
we planted our rows
cottonwood manioc peas and beans
painted flowers on walls
and floors, like our mothers
built porches for rocking chairs
to gather the children
and tell them all about it,
like refugees

the roots are deep now
but the ancient fear deeper
we glance over our shoulders, still
suspicious of our luck
awaiting the act of god that
will surely come,
like karma