FIRST GENERATION

 

Our grandparents sent long, descriptive letters from across the ocean, while we recited the pledge of allegiance to a flag of forty-eight stars in a one-room schoolhouse, the familiar language of home left at the door, along with the breath-damp wool of scarves and mittens in winter. I am an American now, we were made to recite again and again, and to write it in our notebooks until it became as familiar as our own names, the names which others could not or would not pronounce correctly, and could alter with the stroke of a pen. Our prayers, too, were in English, but only when spoken out loud. Our parents, aunts, and uncles braided the old language with the new, sometimes losing track, beginning again, sometimes inventing a new word where no other could be found. But our silence, in endless variations, was easily understood, neither awkward nor American. It sat as easily as a hammock stretched between two pines, swaying gently from east to west, responsive to the slightest breeze.

ON THE RURAL ROUTE

 

We arrived in the heat-thrum of summer

without warning, two young towheaded aliens from

the land of housing projects and junk yards

commandeered as playgrounds, spent the newly

lengthening days wandering, seeking out box turtles

and toads, garter snakes, plucking fat shining ticks

and the dark tongues of slugs from our sunburned arms

and legs, setting out on small, rickety boats, each

painted a different shade of ever-peeling blue,

puffy orange life vests smelling of must,

of those thick, watery seasons long since passed.

In the winter months, the school bus sometimes

could not get through, and the snowplows were slow

to find us, scraping their stubborn way up that

narrow curve of road to our small scattering

of cabins barely visible, the deep-frozen lake on one

side and the deep hibernating fields on the other,

furrows grown hard as gravestone beneath.

The small black-and-white TV was mostly snow

as well, only one local channel's signal strong enough

to reach our clothes-hanger antenna, giving us

the news we could easily see for ourselves.

The weighted sky hung low, the white earth rising

to meet it, growing closer from all directions,

while all else in the world became hopelessly far away,

our lessons for the day stretched out before us,

waiting to be written, before the early fall of dark.

MY MOTHER'S CHINA

 

My mother's china -- bone-white, heavy in young hands,
encircled with a pattern of sky-blue flowers
and filigree, tiny leaves pointing in all directions
at once -- emerged from the far reaches of the cupboards
only twice a year -- Thanksgiving, and Christmas.
It was a set acquired, piece by piece, each having its day,
by saving up a small fortune in S&H green stamps
from the local Red Owl -- the delicate teacups
and saucers, the weighted serving tray, dinner plates
and bread plates, a cream pitcher for coffee.
Even butter claimed its own home -- such extravagance!
Yet we could not have know -- how could we? --
what such an ordinary luxury might mean to our mother,
to at last have something simple and fine, something stately
among the brick and cinder block of the projects,
the mountain girl from Tennessee, denied even a doll
or summertime shoes, trying hard to forget one
lifetime while imaging another, brighter somehow,
which might or might not choose to emerge.
But twice a year, at least, we drank our milk from goblets
like royalty, poured our canned, grayish vegetables
and gelatinous cranberry sauce onto what we imagined
must have been the prettiest plates in town,
while that gravy boat, loaded with thick, brown cargo,
sat motionless among the white cloth of its waters,
dreaming already of the long voyage home,
its sturdy bow not to be seen again for months.

VISITING AMELIA EARHART'S HOUSE WITH MY DAUGHTER

 

We slow to a stop on Fairmount Avenue, the gentle swaying of summer Ash and Elm rising above us on either side, casting an imperfect net of shadows around our sneakered feet. The tall Victorian house has been well cared for, newly painted, as though lifted from another century and gently placed on this small slope of earth. People still live here, so we are mindful not to step upon the freshly-clipped lawn, or to gawk too long into the small curved windows above; though it's easy to imagine the face of that young girl looking out, dreamy and despondent in this foreign place, a harsh Minnesota winter swirling outside the glass. Was her adolescent mind already in flight, mapping a course amongst the heavens which no one else could see? My daughter and I wonder why some details seem clearer when farther away, ponder whether the sky is the greatest of all distances, or in fact its opposite. We have no schedule to keep, and nowhere in particular to be on this day, which makes such questions come more easily, if not their answers. The earth is tilting, though we cannot tell from where we stand; the afternoon sun is both warm and receding.

NAMES

 

My daughter's name was discovered by

her mother in a crowded bookstore,

as though it had already been

spoken for years, her middle name

crooned over the car radio

en route to the hospital through

a fresh dusting of December snow.

Some of our ancestors had names that

were changed and changed again,

anglicized by those who claimed

to know best, while others were deemed

unworthy to be recorded at all.

My aunt gave names to her stillborn,

keeping their sacredness to herself,

while our mother taught my brother

and I that our names were known

to the angels, and could be removed

from the Book of Life if we lied or

took the Lord's name in vain.

I thought of this whenever I wrote

in my Big Chief notebook, or read from

my children's Bible, as I thought of

my earthly father, who too remained

faceless, refusing me the family name.

But today, the winter solstice just

behind us, I can hear the gentle swelling

of choral music from the next room --

something that could only be

expressed in Latin, voices so light and airy they can only rise -- as my daughter

calls out one request or another

that I can't quite make out.

But, of course, I answer; I answer

without hesitation, as if this too were

a kind of song I stumbled into,

and must somehow learn on the spot.

REQUIEM IN WINTER

 

The last hands to touch you were not mine, nor those of any friend or lover, but the powder-blue latex gloves of paramedics, helplessly shaking you, tapping at your thin neck and wrist, while a deputy sheriff -- whose shoulder had broken in the door -- stood by, as if your small body sleeping in your own bed were a crime. Part of me must have stayed in that bed we once shared, but no part that could have saved you. Have we let you down, allowing you to leave this way? How could any of us have known all the different definitions of alone? The last hands to touch you lifted you cleanly from this life, wheeled you out and up the narrow stairs we climbed a thousand times. My mind cannot fathom more -- not the coroner's cooling board and creaking drawer, not the scalpel used to search for what was already gone. So I leave you here, where it is always the same cold morning in January, the door frame hanging like a broken cross in the entryway, and you tucked beneath a fresh white blanket like a child, almost smiling. A flock of wild turkeys has wandered up the bluff; the sky is so bright it blinds.

VINTAGE

 

I have reached the age when walking into

the local Goodwill feels like nothing so much as

a time capsule of every childhood store

I once wandered, unaccompanied, losing myself among

the latest shoes and clothes, the novelties,

televisions and stereos my family could never

have afforded, days when the mall was a great city

of the mind, and the better half of a day could be lost

thumbing the racks at Great American Music.

I have become, along with my once-youthful peers,

and every generation before us -- vintage,

a word we never would have uttered as kids,

clad in our secondhand polyester pants, creeping

above our ankles, our threadbare sweaters

and enormous collars, nothing ever fitting quite right.

But here are the parachute pants and windbreakers

I once longed for, those white Nike sneakers

with the red logo that all the bratty UMC kids had,

the leather jacket I paid next to nothing for.

I think also of you, my love, how you could always

find something of worth to be reclaimed,

a jumper, a blouse, or dress to mix and match

with something at home, an unexpected pairing,

as perhaps we were all those years ago,

complimenting each other before irrevocably clashing.

I think of the racks of cotton and rayon removed

from your closets, faux fur and pencil skirts,

baubles, beads, and broaches packed up and driven

from your empty apartment to the thrift store.

I see some things you might have liked,

but I'm not buying, just passing through today,

having run this last errand on your behalf,

the bright January sun offering precious little

warmth, casting its unwavering glare in my rearview.

THE COUNTY LINE

 

(Tyyne Natus, 1906-1953)

Having waded through the green waves of ditch grass

and wildflowers, bramble grown nearly waist-high,

the prickly stems of young strawberries

and the private cosmology of gnats, we arrive

like casual explorers to examine the broken foundation,

hidden from view off the highway, of what once was

The County Line Bar, place where my grandparents --

only yesterday it seems -- served up drinks

to the always thirsty locals and those passing through,

and no doubt consumed as much as they sold.

Who's to say that these ruins are not sacred,

or their ghosts worthy of remembrance?

Just over there, my grandmother stood for what has

become my favorite photograph of her, framed

on either side by my grandfather and two regulars,

laughing, girlish and seemingly without care,

her small dog held close against her, one cloud of breath,

all but invisible, hovering in the crisp winter air.

This is how I want to remember her, her smile

like a sudden flash of daylight, the gold in her hair

shining, even in black-and-white -- before the loss

of a son on the other side of the world tore

something in her irreparably, before the alcohol bruised

and the weight of her days became too much.

I need to remember this moment, if only for myself,

to remember that she knew joy upon this earth,

the ease and gentleness of common things,

that she loved and was called beloved in return.

THIS MUST BE THE PLACE

 

It was late in December, and you were

visiting from the coast, the thick snow falling

all around us as if in slow motion,

the tires of the car, so low to the ground,

rounding the corners in silence.

You were pointing out the streets and storefronts

you remembered, spoke of friends long since

moved away, turning down a side street

to point out the brownstone where you once lived,

its windows unusually small, its soft yellow light

seemingly from another time and place.

You put in that old cassette, fingers half frozen,

someone singing, as so many others have,

about home -- a little flat, a little off key, but familiar

enough that we remembered every word,

the way a kiss, or the touch of a hand can return

years later, as if they never had left.

How could I tell you in the stillness of that

moment -- you gazing dreamily into your past,

that this -- this very moment -- felt like home to me,

somewhere I longed to stay, if only for a while,

the breath of our words finding each other

without hurry, our jackets smelling of wet sky,

the frozen earth rising, imperceptibly,

to hold us there, before moving on again.

DISAPPOINTMENT AFTER A BRIEF WINTER STORM

 

We had anticipated far worse, as the prophets of winter skies had been promising -- or threatening -- for days, the word "crippling" suddenly commonplace in their weather-speak. We had expected to be stranded, shut in, with nowhere to go but further into a stack of new books, the warm engines of cats humming softly on our laps. But today we wake to crisp blue skies, walls of snow stacked neatly on either side of the street, cars already easing their way through with little resistance. Our responsibilities have found us again, our collective relief mingled with a strange sense of disappointment, not unlike what my mother must have felt when her Messiah failed to return yet again. We had longed to hunker down amongst the fresh winter silence, to claim the lengthening hours as our own, to bend our backs to help our neighbors before retreating to our newfound lives -- solitary, unhurried, underground.

NEW KID

 

We moved whenever the rent increased,

which must have been quite often,

packing up our things into liquor store boxes

and garbage bags, those once-familiar

rooms swept clean, white, our voices echoing back.

Perpetually the new kid in class, slipping in

during the middle of the year, I found

a desk near the back whenever possible,

my voice hesitant and far off, as if part of it had

been left in another town, when asked to

tell the class something about myself.

How could I speak of what I did not know?

We lived sometimes with strangers, or family,

friends of friends, not quite understanding

the politics, daily routines, or household rules,

breathing the strange smell of other lives,

sometimes not bothering to fully unpack our own.

There were so many kids and so many names

that eventually I stopped learning them,

stopped asking, stopped speaking my own.

My role was that of the other, a vague curiosity,

gazing out of winter windows, taking notes.

But I learned to love, if only in passing,

to love from a greater and greater distance.

And to all those who have passed through --

so quickly, so quickly -- I loved you all,

in my own peculiar way, and I can almost see

you now in my rear view, right where you've

always been, growing closer and closer

with each passing year.

SNOWBOUND

 

Everything has moved in closer this morning, everything weighted and wet, the gray sky slung low, curbs and corners all but erased by the endless dunes of white. Up and down the block, the drone and whir of snow blowers ring out, shovels scraping, lifting precariously, nearly breaking beneath the load. Their long handles dot the landscape like makeshift memorials. Shoulder to shoulder, strangers and neighbors push and rock the stubborn boats of automobiles free, at least momentarily. Beneath our woolen layers, the sweet-pungent sweat of winter rises and falls, small clouds of breath answering one weary sigh with another. We await the night plows flashing their small lights of salvation, await even the smallest avenue of passage. For today, no one is going anywhere. Though we are working diligently, patiently to get there.

ECHOCARDIOGRAM

 

There was a time, not so long ago,

when a young woman's hand sweeping

gently, purposefully across your bare chest

would spark a rush of movement

within the blood, stir the recognition

of one flesh meeting another, somehow

both new and ancient at once.

But today you have crossed a threshold

of sorts, where this young woman,

who balances perfectly kindness and business,

measures every bruised and weary chamber

of your heart. "Breathe in," she intones,

"Now stop. Hold that breath...Good."

From the corner of your eye, you can see

the black and white of the ultrasound,

like a closeup of the moon, or years ago

seeing your daughter for the first time,

hiccupping within her mother's frame.

You think, too, of the Buddha, said to pass

into prajnanibbana this way, reclined

on his left side, eyes half-closed, neither

looking nor looking away. But this,

this, you think, is merely a form of limbo,

the moment midway through the play

when the stage lights dim to a dusty blue

and the whole of the set is quickly rearranged.

You sit upright, button your shirt, surprised

by the sudden return of clinical light.

You thank her for her trouble, take the old soldier

in your chest -- by turns too fast, too slow,

too big for its own good -- meandering

down the hall, and out into the wintery day,

blustery and colorless, quietly resigned

to whatever might happen next.

I HAD NEARLY FORGOTTEN

 

I had nearly forgotten the poem

you had sent to me, one

that I had tucked away

to read in a quieter moment,

a moment much like this --

the low winter sun sifting through

the delicate maps of frost

upon the window glass,

blue folding imperceptibly into

gold and back again,

and each word offering itself

like the smallest of birds,

the kind my young daughter paints

with two quick brushstrokes,

each small movement threaded

to another, lifting the whole

of the sky with ease.

MOTHER AND CHILD

 

Just across the street, where yet another

sleek, modern apartment complex has risen,

seemingly overnight, I can spy the figure

of a woman in one window, many stories up,

gently swaying, her baby blanketed and held closely,

moving perhaps to a music which only they

can hear, or to the silence they share between

them, framed within this moment, far above

the winter groans of traffic below, a maddening

wind rushing the clouds along, rattling the

tiny metal doors of street lamps and flagpoles,

bending the trees one way, then another.

I look away, only for a moment, and of course

they are gone, the window glass shimmering with

winter blues, an amber-tinted lightbulb

reflected like a distant star, slowly receding

from view on such a cold and bitter morning,

just now beginning to stir, just now

beginning to wake into the story of itself.

WHY I LIVE IN A COLD CLIMATE

 

Because the sound of ice cracking beneath my feet reminds me of wooden ships creaking as they awaken for a journey. Because that journey can be long and arduous. Because frost collecting in the corners of darkened window glass becomes a kind of map, more reliable than starlight alone. Because I always liked you in a hat, and our bodies draw sudden sparks beneath the drab woolen blankets. Because our breath here can be seen as easily as any cloud passing, our silence sent skyward along with our prayers. Because in winter we walk easily upon water, never questioning the river's current or where we might have left the shore. Because you can follow the tracks of those who have trudged through the snow before you, making a path for others yet to come. Because sound travels far in the cold, and we have learned to listen. Because the Cardinals and house finches remind us to sing, in spite of it all. Because there are as many names and varieties of snow as there are for their Creator. Because whenever you drop a glove here, a stranger will inevitably call out, saving you yet again, and your saying thank you is really an offering of love you cannot quite admit to. But you feel the warmth of that fabric once again encircling your fingers, small but undeniable, feel the pinprick ache of blood's knowing return, and that may be enough for now.

COMPASSIONATE RELEASE

 

My grandfather came home from state prison

hardly noticed, came home simply to die

in peace, or rather, in whatever semblance of

peace a man like him could be granted --

the memory of past sins having their final say,

while cancer gnawed slowly at his bones.

Though not slowly enough and not

painfully enough, my aunt later quipped.

On that first, and last, hospital visit

he resembled most, to my young eyes,

the Egyptian mummy sleeping under glass

at the science museum -- that bleak

skeletal grimace glowing ghostly through

the centuries, one long, withered finger

pointing toward, or reaching out for,

what we could only imagine, ancient gauze

dangling like flesh in the clinical light,

the merely human drawing gasps of fear

and fascination from all of us gathered there.

I feared this husk of a man, and for him,

feared him instinctively, not quite knowing why.

My mother bent low to whisper to him

the forgiveness which her faith demanded,

as one would comfort a suffering child,

before walking us kids solemnly back

outside, the night suddenly quiet, hesitant,

the winter sky hanging flat and low

against the earth, our small breath visible,

hovering in the air between us.

WHEN, FOR A MOMENT, I GROW WEARY

 

When, for a moment, I grow weary

from the endless news reports of bombs

dropping from bleak winter skies

and the faceless tanks nudging their way

through streets clogged with rubble,

I turn my mind instead back to that little girl

cradling her ragged doll at her side, there

in the long silence of the subway tunnel

that for tonight has become her bed.

I want to tell her that everything will be alright,

even if that is another bedtime fable,

to sing to her gently, in her own language,

as I would to my own child, who sleeps

at this moment in a warm tangle of sheets,

mouth agape, dreaming, I imagine,

of flight, and of saving this broken world.

I have not yet found the perfect words

or melody to make this promise happen,

cannot quite decipher my own voice

through a distance as immeasurable as this,

this lullaby merely a litany of questions

turning endlessly back upon itself.

Is the lesson simply that we learn no lessons,

that the old names must soon be worn

smooth to make way for the new?

Still, I continue, offering the only comfort

I can summon, the stubborn light of

one still standing, unable to turn away.