May Poetry, Week 3

Day 15

Sleep Study

Dear Pôgwas Kisos, 

Alnôbaskwagia. You walk

in dreams of grandmothers’

stories and of tomorrows

that are on the horizon. 

21 wires teleport streams

of breath and heart and brain

to a room outside, to a woman

who cannot read the streams

of ancestry we send. In her world,

numbers and graphs, data

to analyze. In our world, yours,

it is dreaming and spirit. Trees

outside the window watch

as you sleep, breathe their own

into you. Birds wake you

with songs of happiness, of 

going on, of carrying streams

of stories into the earth. Let others

tell stories from the wires. You say

what you hear in the dreams

we send, sieved through the webs

in the corner of the window.

NOTE: Pôgwas Kisos = Snow Moon

             Alnôbaskwagia = I am an Abenaki woman

Day 16

Dear Relatives,

Alnôbaskwania, I dream

at the riverbank, catch

news from fish, from polliwogs

becoming their new froggy selves,

from pebbles rolling down

the ages with moss tied 

to their waists. 

I wake to birdsong and wind thumps,

like the drum that leads us in dance. 

I wake and walk Ndakinna

with soft feet, singing 

a green corn song in the garden.

I wake with your breath on me,

your blood in me, your eyes open.

I give it all back with chapters added

to the story, make each night

a night of praise. Alôbaskwania.

NOTE: Alôbaskwania = You are an Abenaki woman

Day 17

Dear Embryo,

You of not quite feet and hands,

better off than a blastocyte,

not so safe as a near-term fetus, you

with cells flying off 

the chart in growth, you unnamed

DNA organizing into someone

who might be worshipped

by your family soon enough

or might be terminated 

as an inconvenience.

How is it that you raise

so much controversy

over what to do about you?

How is it that some want you

to be less of a burden

to society, you who cannot feed

yourself for another three years,

cannot buy or grow your own food

for another dozen plus? 

How is it that some will kill

over the right to eliminate you?

What’s up

with all the fuss 

over whether or not you get funded

for college, have to wait in long lines 

to vote, or have the right to marry

that other little boy embryo 

growing down the street in Mrs. James?

Are you nervous? Where is this all leading?

Day 18

Dear Vincent,

I’d write this as a sonnet in iambs

if I could make the rhyme fit nice and neat,

but my meter’s meter seems somewhat jammed

and I can hardly count the doggone feet.

Is it that I am growing tired or old,

or has my poet’s brain come down with flu?

I see my rhyme and meter have gone cold,

and I don’t really know what I should do.

What say you take a break and come to help,

bring me chocolate or something strong to drink,

rub my shoulders or massage my scalp.

Look at this mess; the thing is on the brink

of making me give up poetry for good.

(Go on, tell me now if you think I should.)

Day 19

Dear Poet-in-Training,

Who am I but another trudger

in between publications, thinking

to help you. My right hand

stiffens, my fingers go numb.

My feet tap under my desk 

the same as yours, my eyes burn, 

my energy sputters like the candle 

at midnight, same as yours. 

Who am I to say a phrase is dull,

a line too awkwardly unmetrical,

a metaphor over-used and trite?

Who told you I’d be of help?

Winds will keep soughing

the lilacs out side my window, 

pushing the scent in for comfort,

still I will crumple the pages

and start over a dozen times. Cats

will keep fighting in the street,

my lines too, dying

over and over from the struggle.

It’s a puzzle we do, fitting image

with verb, holding our breaths

for the final picture. 

Who am I and who are you? 

Day 20

The Apology

First

let me say  (to myself) 

it wasn’t my fault,

then let me say I’m sorry,

then I’ll wait for you to say it.

Next

after I’ve apologized, conceded,

you say how right you are (always),

then let me say: you are so sorry.

Finally

let me declare the ritual done,

the game over.

Day 21

The Apology, part deux

I need one,

something heartfelt, 

blood-red words 

from your lips. Say them.

Not too much to ask,

really simple: open 

your mouth and spill it.

Say you were wrong,

not that you were not

entirely right. An apology.

I can hold it, a heart

without an arrow; I can see

it carved into the willow

that shades the yard, that wept 

over every argument. 

The bedroom clock clangs

a bit off key. It won’t keep time.