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

Under a smokey sky
her kind air, and steady gaze
put a firm hand on my chest
and pushed

just hard enough to take my breath away

I am standing here still
at some distance, steadying myself, mindful
that my next step in any direction, will determine
how we walk forward
mother and daughter

Like an ee poem
where nothing-but-yourself blazes
and a single word can command a whole line, limitless
she is demanding space
to fill up as she pleases

I will step back
as she moves forward
tease us apart carefully, and wait, circling
the slippery outer edge
of infinity

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.

When yes is a gift
wrapped in love wrapped in
reason wrapped
in daydream wrapped in
self doubt wrapped
in pain wrapped in    
silence—
it is likely no, wrapped
in bitterness

When no is a gift
wrapped in love wrapped in
insight wrapped    
in waking wrapped in
bloom wrapped
in shelter wrapped in
truth spoken—
it is yes,
unwrapped

like daisies to the sun
magnet to the moon
sweet tang of peppermint
face raised with shining eyes

like dancing cabbage whites
plums clinging to the branch
roots warm in cool brown earth
hands reach and nestle close

like vines around the oak
clematis shoots in spring
sweetpeas through the fence
four arms in twined embrace

like rosehip to potent tea
hatchling to chickadee
from green to aubergine
my love is sprouting wings

If love is a dovetail drawer
I will turn my curious eye to the
dark inside
under ancient flowered paper
dust bits and lockets, or my mother’s
twelve-piece china
doesn’t matter
nor whether Shaker or Bauhaus
retro or rustic
how wide, weighty
or improbable

No, the corners hold secrets—
fingers that catch
the places that touch

And require practiced hands, sober skill
and a bit of glue—
to build a join of tensile strength  
to bear love’s blow