In the moon-fade and the sunís puppy breath,
in the crowís plummeting cry,
in my broken foot and arthritic joints,
memory calls me
to the earthís opening, the graves dug, again, and again
I, always I am left
to turn away
into a batís wing-brush of air.
That never changes . . .
not this morning, not here
where Iíve just found
in the back of my truck, under the rubber mat,
in a teacupís worth of dirt,
where it seems no seed could possibly be
a corn kernel split to pale leaves and string-roots.
Itís a strange leap but I make it
and bend to these small harvests
because somewhere in North Carolina there was a house
and in it, my room and my bed,
bare boards and the blood stains of a man
that in each slant rainís worried whispers puddles to the cries of a slave,
murdered in 1863 trying to escape.
Somewhere there was a child who slept
on the living roomís red-vinyl couch
who still matters
especially now that I canít remember when the creek
that bounded our family farm led to an ocean
or when a boxcarís weather-wasted letters spelling Illinois
meant somewhere there was an Illinois.
Itís still 1976--
the day after Iíve been seen playing tennis
with a black boy, and it seems I will always
be held at gunpoint and beaten
as if the right punch would chunk out his name.
No, itís 1969--
The year my mother becomes a wax paste,
or so she looks to the child I was,
and she drips into the pink satin
and I learned the funereal smell of carnations.
That year the moon was still made of green cheese.
That year men first bagged and labeled that moon.
There are no years, only the past
and I still donít know why Odell Horne
pulled a shotgun on my brother
or how the body contains so much blood.
I still donít know why Donna Hill went to Myrtle Beach
and three days later came back dead.
For ten years I lived with Louise Stegall,
the lover of my father, one of her four men, all buried--
suicide, murder, drink, again murder.
It was after the second one that she sat stock still
and silent, four years in the asylum.
Now she walks the road all day,
picking up Cracker Jack trinkets
to give to children
brave enough to approach her.
When I was nine, the starling pecked outside her window a whole week.
Somebodyís gonna die, she said
and made me hug Uncle Robertís neck
as if I couldnít know heíd be gone in two hours,
as if I hadnít learned anything about people
and their vanishing.
The last time I saw her she wouldnít look at me,
jerked her sweatshirtís hood across
her face and stepped into the ditch,
as though there are some things even she wonít tell,
as though Iíve never known itís dirt and dust after all--
the earthís sink and the wormsí castings.
With the wet leaves thick on my steps,
the evening sky bruised dull gray to black,
when Iíve spilt salt and as the saying goes the sorrow and tears,
and the stove is cold so salt wonít burn,
tell me my pocket of charms can counter any spell.
Tell me again the reason for my grandfatherís fingers
afloat in the Mason jar on the fireplace mantel
between the snuff tin and the bowl of circus peanuts.
What about the teeth in the dresser bureau,
the sliver of back bone I wear around my neck?
Again the washed-out photo in the family album,
Pacific wind lifting the small waves onto Coral Beach,
clicking the palm treesí fronds.
Again my fatherís rakish grin,
his bayonet catching a scratch of sun,
his left foot propped on the stripped and bloodied body.
Behind him, a stack of Japanese.
Let me believe in anything.
Doesnít the grizzled chicken dig up hoodoo hands?
Wonít the blue door frame, the basket of acorns protect me;
what about the knife in a pail of water?
When giving me the deadís slippered feet
room to room,
why not also synchronicityís proof,
a wish and the tilted ears of angels?
I want to believe in the power of rosemary
knuckled along the fence
even as the stars order themselves
to an unalterable and essential law.
I want the wind-whipped leaves to settle
and the flattened scrub to right itself,
want the loose tin in the neighborís shed
to finish its message.
When this season in its scoured exactitude shifts closer,
give me Devilís Blue Boletus through the piled leaves,
the slender green of Earth Tongue,
phosphorescent Honey Tuft dispatched by the dead.
Their voices coming nearer, almost deciphered.
Whatever lies you have
there in that nail-clipping of time,
give them to me.
|From Carolina Ghost Woods, forthcoming from Louisiana State University Press, spring 2000. Copyright © 1999 by Judy Jordan. All rights reserved. Used by permission.|