143.  On Wednesday

I hear the birds sing
                        gateau!
      (no accents on cake).
      maman & dad
            lay in their grave
                                      sharing
      flowers, a bush
      rhododendrons
Aunt Margaret’s
            margarets
Daisy’s daises,
      his toes—
            her curls
      are strawberries
because, they say,
      you are what
            you eat.

144.  The Paris Dirt
                       
                                                mai, France 1994
                                                for maman

      The Paris Dirt
               and
            Cuban cigarellos
               arrived
      in the yellow postal
               box
      from France
            marked for douane
            “Parfum”.
     
      (It all depends
            on what
                you
      consider——
                        aroma.)
     
      Pinkish, chaulky
            dirt from
      under the Tour
            Eiffel
      taken in an almost
            midnight sun.
      To be spread
            like the
                        ashes of
            memory on her grave.
     
      Planted like seed
      to sow more
      France-et-Maine
      piled on
            generation
            after
            generation
      in payment
      for
      her
      Jean Patou
      Vogue Paris Original
      haute couture
            she
      sewed for me.
     
      I haul Paris
            home, graveside
      to her
      so she can say:
“I never went to Paris,
      but that never stopped
      it
            from
                        coming to me.”

146.  Jesse Helps

      Going to the cemetery.
     
      Can I come?
            he asks.
      I look around
            carefully
      thinking,
            remembering
            other times
      I was asked
            to be accompanied
            remembering
            I refused.
            Carefully,
      so as not to make the same
                                                mistake.
      I say:
            “Yes.”

147.  We Spread The Dirt

      We spread the dirt
      wife
      husband
      son
            on
      maman and dad,
      pépère and mémère
            from
      daughter and granddaughter
      son-in-law
      grandson and great-grandson
      on the ancestors
            like
      we are priests
      without ritual—
      Eiffel Tower pink-tinted dirt and rocks
            for her
      France-on-the-Loire brown
      country farmer’s soil
            for him,
      like cremation ashes
      of memory.

Always Time For Grace

They say Grace’s
            house
      was not the
            cleanest.
Those in town
            all agreed.
If you are going to
      to see Grace,
Her house is a mess.
      Dirty dishes
      piled up in the sink.
      Kids running
 wild, sometimes
            naked.
Husband, too. (No Adam In Eden)

Grace ran a comb
      through her hair
elevated her jeans,
      rolled cuffs,
      donned her cotton
            tailed shirt
to appease her hunger
      for words. (Peyton Place)
Creativity. Woman’s voice.

(Tight White Collar)

Jack, dharma bum
  was on the road.
He wasn’t alone.

Hollywood came to pay a call.
            New York.
      The crooked agent.
 A singing disc jockey.
(Return To Peyton Place)
Pathetic little lackings—
      of their own
            true creativity
to steal from Grace,
      hers.

Apples and Potatoes

Someone had to peel
      the apples and potatoes
while the family car
      chugged away.
      Arranging daily matters
                        habits
                        life
      as the family car boiled
            gas and oil
      eating up oxygen
      spewing carbon monoxide
      gas
on her sitting quietly
      desperately agonizing
her times of love-making
and the issue of birth.
Shame, stigmas, sorrow
So she peeled away apples
and potato crusts
leaving them raw and exposed
to the gaseous clouds
swelling, slipping silently
up and past their mutual
      pores
            nostrils.
The man she married
      was not the one chosen
      by her
but by her parents
      was she forever banished
to meet and marry another
      of their own choosing.

Taking her life
            slipping to the floor
like red and brown peels
            of apple and potato.

As If

graves without accents

an unaccented life

living without measure

or worth

and dying

as if
no impression

remains.

I wonder at the touch
of the stone mason’s
air hammer
or chisel
secretly
at work
throughout the evening.

Marking the names
accenting the unaccented
in order to make their
mark.
finally.
in death
as if
in life.

Bedroom Door, Painted White

finger prints
      on the
            bedroom
              door,
painted white
            speaks
      not of dirt
            but of
              petition.
      Good nights
            good-byes
                        hellos.
      Maman,
            are you in
                        there?
Can I come in?

3-15-98

Beth

Six men carried
      the woman
      into her house
paralyzed
      by cancer
      coursing her spine.

Her babies playing jokes
      ringing the
      door bell.
Childish play screams
      little shoes
small tripping,
      skipping feet.

Miniature man
      and woman
twenty years hence
      when she’s
      a breath
      of air in the lives
to those she gave life—
      A portal from
            heaven.

These children of hers
      will look back
      at us
      with her eyes
            and
      a graceful flick
            of hands.

Final Inspection
           
            Hathaway Shirt Factory
            Waterville, Maine

An expert seamstress, couseuse

      she was hired on
      for final inspection
at the shirt factory
      on Water St.

She came home
      told us
“this job was different
      from the one who sewed dozens.”
Or that's what the bosses
      told her.

“Don't expect to do a hundred dozen a day here.”

      Your quotas
      will be
      loose threads
      cut
      clip
      caught.
Hard. Exacting work.

“I already have scissors” she said
“You'll need final inspection scissors”
      they replied.

“And You Buy Them.”

She bought the scissors
      practiced holding them
      working them in her hand for speed
      Uncomfortable/comfortable
      Untraditional/ritual

Final Inspection Scissors
      became a part
of her sewing life.

She, the seamstress, couseuse
      looked at
            shirts
                        sloppily
            or
      Well
      sewn
loose threads lost in seams
crooked seams

inspecting finally
            or
rejecting
      the work.

Deciding which shirts to return to the woman-maker who sews
      returns on a punched in clock
      losing time
      breaking quotas
      cursing threads
      final inspectors
      bosses
      quotas
      timed piecework
      crooked seams
      silks
      cottons
      whites
      colors.

Tension mounts for the seamstress final inspector
Shirts pile
silk and cotton
colors and whites
angry, women at returned shirts
clocked quotas
short scissors
hot weather place
100° or better
timed piecework
Bosses complain
final inspection
not final
enough.

Faster, Faster, Faster.

to her
who left
finally,
with her scissors.

Jesse’s Sunbeam

Jesse touched a sunbeam
      golden curls
lightened by the rays
catching the dust in open fingers
examining the great wealth he had caught
      only to find an empty hand
looking full-face in the brightness
he knew if he tried long enough
he could get a fistful…
Long before the shadows came
The sunbeam was abandoned
Jesse had caught all the dust he needed.

My Father Was A Farmer

My father
      was a farmer
      who worked in
            a mill.
He led a double
            life
      tending gardens, animals
      and paper machines.

His ancestral calling
      was the earth
His friend
mentor
creator.

He understood
      dirt
      like
it knew him.
fingering, sifting the sandy loom
      he knew
      what to expect from it
      how much yield it could give
And what it needed from him.

He formed his rows on hills
planted the seed
three for people
three for birds.

He always planted for the birds.

My Mother’s Freedom

My line of
            freedom
  is so long
      I can sit
      in a
        restaurant
with two men
      to talk
  or joke
  or laugh.
My mother
               would have
      landed in her
            grave
if she only
            thought
   of such a thing
            as freedom.
I buy the men lunch.

4-25-94

Oil Can Harry

The paper machine man
      and his can of oil
      Is my knight in shining armor
            because he told me
      it was ok to cheat
      If it meant you had to win
      or be
      equal
      to the situation of foul play.

Overhead
     

      The moon
            half-cropped
            lake reflected
            black fly
            inspected words
            telegraphing waves
            announcing the                       
            earth's rotations
                        or a boat's recent
            wharf-bound passage
            paper focused
                        dizziness
            Waves in
                        appear as if
            Waves out
            dragon fly scout
            the air between
            lake &
            moon.

June 16, 2006

Punctuation

A generation of meaning
      or responding
to its progenitors.
Lost meaning
      a thread of existences
previous before
      Snapped.
Values of pleasant      
      worth
     lost.
  A farce or false front
of propriety
    when our human
      legacy
  is rot or crassness.
     Death, a release
      a response
to life’s disbelief
    in itself.
Life or living is a lie
     of existences.
We are more of dying
     or death
      than we are of
     living.
For all Reasons,
      we are always
      on death’s door
      stoop—
begging to be let in.
      Craving our
      living
spending our being
We live, this is true
But we die more.
In living, why should we
      die more?
Why help death?
It is the dying we do
Which makes us live.
We live to die.
Our birth, the majuscule.
Our death, the period.

The Mill Worker Arises

The Mill whistle
      beckons the worker
            tantalizing, taunting
            the sleep of
            wives (children)
      men
                        calling them to
            mass production.

The telephone jangles
      midwinter
      midnight

freezing
      the man dresses
the wife
      absents her bed
packs his food in enameled covered dishes
in a basket.
(other baskets like this have gone on picnics).
The mill,
(after cooking the men),
 provides a stove
      for reheating
her prepared midnight libation in enameled dishes.

The crusader of industry
    places his hand
      on the three foot
      pipe wrench
laying a shoulder
      into the cloud
      of oven hot steam and sulphite
   prepares to battle
      with paper machine No. 2.

Tiny, dwarfed, he
      stands, works, walks
the steam-powered monstrous machine
      who eats men better than the biblical fish
      electrifies their silhouette with 420 volts
      spews gases into their lungs
      belches firewater like hell over gears and gauges
Deifying itself.

Claiming the souls of the damned
      wrenching, contorting
            their earthly bodies
bathing them in a baptismal sweat
Releasing the men to the morning air
      ghost-walkers
            dedicated to so many pounds
                        of steam
                        under pressure. 

The Release

The release is an
      echoed valley
A sound come upon
      itself
while traveling
    back
     to the bell
that rang.
Seventy times Seven
The math of
      forgiveness.
Love as a plow
releases
the earth of its
accumulates.
Days upon days upon days
  of toil.
A tiny seed laid to
      rest.
In the newly released
   ground
learns its lesson
  of growth.

Sweat Shop Girls
           
            Hathaway Shirt Factory
            Waterville, Maine

Sweat Shop Girls
      bring
     
      batch tickets
home
      in their purses.

Averages of
      one-hundred twenty dozen
      pockets
      stays
      sleeves
      collars
      cuffs
      buttons
      button holes
A day
      make for poor
      piece work
      politics.

Boss Timer
      wants borderline production
      by
      Sweat Shop Girls
      so
he need not pay
      for
Above Averages Work.

Sweat Shop Girls
      bring
batch tickets home
      in their purses
for tomorrow's
      averages.

Sweat Shop Girls
      work
      hard, above averages
building up
collecting for
      tomorrow
      timed
tomorrow
      moved
to another job
building more averages.

The War In The Gulf

      The Brutalities
      as they occur
      are interesting
or part of the rational
      male norm
as opposed to the irrational
      female norm.

Luckily, women violentlessly
      bleed once a month
      feeding the need
      for revenge on the body's mortality.

Men, in lack of menses
      hunt
      or
      war
to get their own blood letting
in an attempt to do women.

Futility at immortalities.

Women bleed purposefully
men bleed uselessly.

Men award each other medals for their blood sheds.
Women, declared biblically unclean, hide
or wrap their blood letting in tissue paper
or flush their (reasonable)
life-giving down the toilet.

Women bleed to give life
monthly reminders
of their capability.
Men bleed to take life
battle cry
      reminders
of their response
to women's power.

Blood stains on a woman's clothes
      leakages of life-giving proof
      shame her into hiding
      tabu
to have sex with a bleeding woman.
Men who come that close to blood
letting with a purpose
are afraid of its power
or are unsure or in awe
to partake of such
calm violence
consented/accepted
in silence,
quietness,
easy flowage,
between the legs.

And she hesitates to show him her power
all-used to shame
or proof of her life-giving.

He has had to go to war
to see such
marvelous
vitality
of knowing when one is alive
truly, by dying.

She wraps her pad in a tissue
      waits another
(violentless) period out.

Compared.

4-21-97

The View From Flight 5410—Northwest—Memphis-to-Lafayette

What is a quilt?
A quilt is a woman’s garden
fields of cloth
echoing the earth
harrowing—plowing
seeding
weeding
reaping
repeating
the gifts
  first fruits
forests
groves
crazy quilt fluvial plains
snaking rivers.
geological fossils
road bed
farm labor
cain raising cain
swirling sweeping
river bed
bound to the river
to the oceans
to the sea.
raised threads
borders between
field & forests
crazy quilt
ordered pattern
a cloud’s shadow
belongs.
shadings
gradations
“in search of our
mother’s gardens”
grown
in cloth
quilting
earth-bound
echoing
repeating
the meter, measure
of the land—
pull the clouds
from the sky
cotton batting
fluff
   stuffed
__________
Quilt
earth &
       sky
unite.
__________

“There’s power in those quilts,” she warned me.  I simply nodded yes.

Legacy
           

Legacy
what the old lady said upon leaving this earth...
"je te souhaite..." with curses following
her last breath
spitting at my mother
who walked away
and cried.
Maman had taken care of this old
bedridden bird
for
two years...

How do I walk away from the curses learned
at eight to fifty-eight
relived as my mother’s memory
mine?

The seed the old lady planted in my heart
of hate.
Uprooted.
Unprotected sense of self
Saddened by her curses.

I carry her word-laden legacy...je te souhaite
now broken with the
found words
of joy.

Like love actually.
Hard
Difficult to erase
the vehemence
at the core of my
child soul
wishing for
a better
response
for one
woman’s
sacrifice
for
another.

She told herself
a
mystery upon
death’s breath
that the old lady
tried and tried
to apologize.
Me, I never forgot
to this day: “je te souhaite.”
meant (spouting curses )
hate at death’s door
scared the old lady
my grandmother/memere
more than the
curses she espoused.
The curses came at her
In ten-fold
Hell’s hot breath
on her toothless, ugly
face and then she died.
Not expunged
Not unctioned
Not absolved.
Until
Now.

By me.

Je te souhaite…memere…

Je te souhaite les étoiles
je te souhaite une bonne journée
je te souhaite une bonne semaine
je te souhaite un bon week-end
je te souhaite bonne chance
je te souhaite un joyeux anniversaire
je te souhaite le meilleur
je te souhaite un bon retablissement
je te souhaite un prompt rétablissement, et surtout un ... Bonne guérison
je te souhaite un tres joyeux anniversaire
Je te souhaite un jour très agréable
Je te souhaite le mieux: amitié, Amour, calme, confiance, conscience, Dieu dans le coeur, être, faveur, foi, force, gratitude, guérison, illumination
je te souhaite une très bonne journée
je te souhaite une bonne chance dans ta vie vie professionnel
souhaiter bonne chance
je vous souhaite à tous un bon réveillon
Je te souhaite un jour très agréable
Je te souhaite une excellente journée !‎
Je te souhaite bonne chance pour en trouver
je te souhaite moi aussi un bon week-end
Je te souhaite une belle journee pleine d'amour dans ton coeur
"je te souhaite de profiter pleinement de ce jour special
Je vous souhaite la même chose
Je te souhaite une bonne visite
Je vous souhaite une bonne lecture
Je te souhaite le plus grand bonheur
"Je vous souhaite bien chaque jour"
"Je vous souhaite bien tous les jours".
Je vous souhaite mes meilleurs voeux
Je te souhaite la meilleure année que tu n'ais jamais eue. De toutes les années que tu as vécues, je te souhaite que ce soit la meilleure !
Alors je te souhaite d'être heureux dans ta vie
"je vous souhaite de même"
je te souhaite une année chaleureuse et passionnément amoureuse
"Je vous souhaite une bonne santé et du bonheur pour toute la famille"
J'espère que tu passes un magnifique dimanche, je te souhaite une merveilleuse et surprenante semaine.
j'espère que tu vas bien
" je te souhaite beaucoup de bonheur à l'avenir"
C'est avec plaisir que je te souhaites une bonne vie
"Je te souhait toujours la bonne chance, et j'espère qu'il y a toujours les bonnes choses qui te passes".
Je te souhaite une superbe journée avec une éternité des souvenirs
je te souhaite un bon retour'
Je te souhaite une très bonne/belle journée, ma chérie
je te souhaite tout ce qu'il y a de meiux pour l'avenir.
je vous souhaite une bonne fin de soirée.
"Je te souhaite un bon vol".