Absolute Trust in the Goodness of the Earth Read online

  Until

  They were done.

  I am connected

  To all

  Of this

  By

  My great

  Grandmother’s Native

  Name

  Tallulah, i.e.,

  Basket maker,

  Which

  Turning fifty

  I began claiming

  As

  My own

  As I claim

  My kinswoman

  Spider &

  The brilliant

  Ancestral

  Body

  Of

  Her art.

  Let Change Play God

  A Native Person Looks up from the Plate

  (Or, owning how we must look to a

  person who has become our food)

  They are eating

  Us.

  To step out of our doors

  Is to feel

  Their teeth

  On our throats.

  They are gobbling

  Up our

  Lands

  Our waters

  Our weavings

  & our artifacts.

  They are nibbling

  At the noses

  Of

  Our canoes

  & moccasins.

  They drink our oil

  Like cocktails

  & lick down

  Our jewelry

  Like icicles.

  They are siphoning

  Our songs.

  They are devouring

  Us.

  We brown, black,

  Red, and yellow

  Unruly

  white

  Morsels

  Creating Life

  Until we die:

  Spread out in the chilling sun

  That is

  Their plate.

  They are eating

  Us raw

  Without sauce.

  Everywhere we

  Have been

  We are no more.

  Everywhere we are

  Going

  They do not want.

  They are eating

  Us whole.

  The glint of their

  Teeth

  The light

  That beckons

  Us to table

  Where only they

  Will dine.

  They are devouring

  Us.

  Our histories.

  Our heroes.

  Our ancestors.

  And all appetizing

  Youngsters

  To come.

  Where they graze

  Among the

  People

  Who create

  Who labor

  Who live

  In beauty

  And walk

  So lightly

  On the earth—

  There is nothing

  Left.

  Not even our roots

  Reminding us

  To bloom.

  Now they have wedged

  The whole

  Of the earth

  Between their

  Cheeks.

  Their

  Wide bellies

  Crazily

  Clad

  In stolen

  Goods

  Are near

  To bursting

  With

  The fine meal

  Gone foul

  That is us.

  The Anonymous Caller

  The anonymous caller

  Begins

  His diatribe

  You shitty

  Bitch

  Ends it

  With

  A threat:

  I Know

  Where

  You

  Live.

  I can tell

  By his

  Voice

  That he is

  Young

  Unaware

  That

  As far

  As Calamity

  Is concerned

  As far

  As Death

  Is concerned

  All of us

  Share

  The same

  Address;

  All

  Of us

  Live

  In the

  Same

  House.

  I Was So Puzzled by the Attacks

  I was so

  Puzzled

  By

  The attacks.

  It was as if

  They believed

  We were

  In a race

  To succeed

  Someone

  Other

  Than

  Death

  Was at

  The

  Finish

  Line.

  At First, It Is True, I Thought There Were Only Peaches & Wild Grapes

  To my delight

  I have found myself

  Born

  Into a garden

  Of many fruits.

  At first, it is true,

  I thought

  There were only

  Peaches & wild grapes.

  That watermelon

  Lush, refreshing

  Completed my range.

  But now, Child,

  I can tell you

  There is such

  A creature

  As the wavy green

  Cherimoya

  The black loudsmelling

  & delicious

  Durian

  The fleshy orange mango

  And the spiky, whitehearted

  Soursop.

  In my garden

  Imagine!

  At first I thought

  I could live

  On blue plums

  That fresh yellow pears

  Might become

  My sole delight.

  I was naïve, Child.

  Infinite is

  The garden

  Of many fruits.

  Tasting them

  I myself

  Spread out

  To cover

  The earth.

  Savoring each &

  Every

  One—date, fig, persimmon, passion fruit—

  I am everywhere

  At home.

  May 23, 1999

  There is nothing

  To say

  I am content.

  Zelie

  On her blue bike

  Has gone off

  To feed

  The dogs.

  Reverend E. in Her Red Dress

  Rev. E.

  In her red dress

  White hair

  Shining

  Black skin

  Glowing

  Standing at the door

  Of our History

  Standing at the gateway

  To

  Whatever lies

  Ahead.

  We see you

  At last for who you truly are:

  Daughter, Sister, Woman, Lover,

  Mother, Friend

  Your thoughts

  Leaping

  Silver

  As fish

  Brilliant as fire

  Your laughter

  Like your sorrow

  A flashing

  Stream

  From which

  We drink.

  We see you

  & know you reflect

  The Divine Mother

  She who gives birth

  To all

  And destroys all

  At the end.

  If we lived in

  India

  We would

  Worship you

  There, pilgrims

  Stay gone

  Wear rags

  Eat handouts

  Lock their hair

  Pray beside

  Rivers, holy stones

  & shrines

  Begging the Universe

  For a single glimpse

  Of you.

  Divine Mother representing


  The Life Force

  The Earth

  And all that She

  Brings forth

  Keep on praying

  For us

  Earth’s children

  That you

  So clearly

  Love

  Help us to

  Love one another

  To shed our fears

  Of unworthiness

  Our habits

  Of self-hatefulness

  Our greed

  To be accepted

  As something

  Other than

  What we are.

  Divine Mother

  Keep on praying

  For us

  All Earthlings

  All children

  Of this awesome

  Place

  Not one of us

  Knowing

  Why we’re here

  Except to Be.

  Keep on praying for us.

  Your children

  The children of Earth

  Are starving

  For the sight

  Of something

  Real

  Dying for the sound

  Of something

  True.

  Pray for us

  To know

  That nothing

  Stops a lie

  Like being

  Yourself.

  For Rev. Eloise Oliver, minister of the East Bay Church of Religious Science, Oakland, California

  All the People Who Work for Me & My Dog Too

  All the People Who Work for Me & My Dog Too

  All the people who work for me

  & my dog too

  Think

  I’m crazy

  Rushing to

  & fro

  Doing this

  & that

  Never really

  Still

  Until

  I absolutely

  Sit.

  They think

  These people

  Who work for me

  & my dog

  Too

  That I have

  Lost

  My mind.

  I’m always sending them

  On errands

  I could do

  Myself.

  My dog sometimes

  Fetching a ball

  Looks at me

  With such pity

  In her brown eyes.

  My cat

  Enduring the madness

  No longer

  Bailed out;

  Went to live

  With an aunt.

  I feel myself

  Slowly

  Coming awake

  In the rush.

  Seeing the gingko tree

  When it waves

  Responding to seduction

  By tomato

  Noticing

  José’s mustache

  & eyes

  When I ask him

  To fly

  Down

  The mountain

  For an egg.

  The Snail Is My Power Animal

  While I was visiting the Amazon, a giant snail crawled uphill to lie in the doorway of my tambo (hut) every morning. According to shamanic wisdom, the animal who comes to you at least four times while you are on a medicine quest is your power animal.

  That’s the thing

  About poems

  You never know

  When

  They’re going to crawl up

  The hill

  Stick out their wrinkled

  Necks

  & rest in your

  Front door.

  I was just here

  Feeling

  Overdressed

  That I am

  Too warm

  Yet craving

  Hot soup.

  Between the

  Boiling

  Of the soup

  & the tasting

  Of it

  I see my dog

  Shift her body

  Wondering why we’re always

  On the road

  I see the house

  I’ve made

  Substantial

  Solid

  That I carry on my back

  Like a shell.

  In Everything I Do

  In everything I do

  There is an animal.

  A cat, a dog

  A snake

  A bird

  Or a chameleon.

  An elephant

  A turtle

  A chicken or

  A mouse.

  The monkey

  Is my special

  Love

  My totem

  Ever since

  I was born

  & they commented

  How much

  I resembled

  One.

  Then I grew up

  To learn

  How very

  Clever

  Intelligent

  Wise

  Funny

  & sweetly

  Beautiful

  The monkey

  Is

  & how

  It is tortured.

  The Writer’s Life

  During those times

  I possess the imagination to ignore

  The chaos

  I live

  The writer’s life:

  I lie in bed

  Gazing out

  The window.

  To my right

  I notice

  My neighbor

  Is always painting

  And repainting

  His house.

  To my left

  My other neighbor

  Speaks of too much shade

  Of tearing

  Out

  Our trees.

  Sometimes

  I paint

  My house

  Orange & apricot

  Butterscotch & plum—

  Sometimes

  I speak up

  To save

  The trees.

  The days

  I like best

  Have

  Meditation

  Lovemaking

  Eating scones

  With my lover

  In them.

  Walks on the beach

  Picnics in the

  Hammock

  That overlooks

  The sea.

  Hiking in the hills

  Leaning on

  Our

  Walking sticks.

  Writers perfect

  The art

  Of doing nothing

  So beautifully.

  We know

  If there is

  A butterfly

  Anywhere

  For miles

  Around

  It will come

  Hover

  & maybe

  Land

  On our head.

  If there is a bird

  Even flying aimless

  In the next

  County

  It will not only

  Appear

  Where we are

  But sing.

  If there is

  A story

  It will

  Cough

  In the middle

  Of our

  Lazy

  Day

  Only once

  Maybe more

  & announce

  Itself.

  Grace

  Grace

  Gives me a day

  Too beautiful

  I had thought

  To stay indoors

  & yet

  Washing my dishes

  Straightening

  My shelves

  Finally

  Throwing out

  The wilted

  Onions

  Shrunken garlic

  Cloves

  I discover

  I am happy

  To be inside

  Looking out.

  This, I think,

  Is wealth.

  Ju
st this choosing

  Of how

  A beautiful day

  Is spent.

  Loss of Vitality

  Loss of vitality

  Is a sign

  That

  Things have gone

  Wrong.

  It is like

  Sitting on

  A sunny pier

  Wondering whether

  To swing

  Your feet.

  A time of dullness

  Deadness

  Sodden enthusiasm

  When

  This exists

  At all.

  Decay.

  You wonder:

  Was I ever “on”

  Bright with life

  My thoughts

  Spinning out

  Confident

  As

  Sunflowers?

  Did I wiggle

  My ears

  & jiggle my toes

  From sheer

  Delight?

  Is the girl

  Grinning fiercely

  In the old photo

  Really me?

  Loss of vitality

  Signals emptiness

  But let

  Me tell you:

  Depletion can be

  Just the thing.

  You are using

  Have used

  Up

  The old life

  The old way.

  Now will rush in

  The energetic,

  The flexible,

  The unmistakable

  Knowing

  That life is life

  Not mood.

  Until I Was Nearly Fifty

  Until I was

  Nearly fifty

  I barely thought

  Of age.

  But now

  As I approach

  Becoming

  An elder

  I find I want

  To give all

  That I know

  To youth.

  Those who sit

  Skeptical

  With hooded

  Eyes

  Wondering

  If there really

  Is

  A path ahead

  & whether

  There really

  Are

  Elders

  Upon it.

  Yes. We are there

  Just ahead

  Of you.

  The path you are on

  Is full of bends

  Of crooks

  Potholes

  Distracting noises

  & insults

  Of all kinds.

  The path one is on

  Always is.

  But there we are

  Just out of view

  Looking back

  Concerned

  For you.

  I see my dearest

  Friend

  At fifty-one

  Her hair

  Now