1

Flap, flap went the mind of the bird

Who flew out of my grandmother's attic

Like heat in the creases

Where air used to be.  One week

Of summer was all that house

Could take of my brother and me.



			Years later,

After she died, someone, my aunt I

Think, arranged for her to be driven

Back to Kingfisher, Oklahoma for the

Funeral.  It was raining, the mortician

Hadn't arrived yet, so the driver

Left her there --



My grandmother, unembalmed, in darkness,



In the month of the Green Corn Ceremony.

But she wasn't Cherokee, she hated Indians.

Her story was only deep, irregular

Wing-beats of the heart.



Down dropped a huge bright-colored

Night-bird with large crested head,

Which, when raised, gave

The appearance of being startled.



It skimmed a few puddles gorging

On insects and a lizard or two.

Then banked south for my

Grandmother's house, bright star.

 

2

Out out,

The bumblebee caught in the Pepsi

Bottle, one of twelve

In the wood crate cooking

In the shed



And Arthur Van Horn drawing

Bow and resin across

Catgut, sour linen under the fiddle, rosewood

Cradled



Under the chin -- his new baby

Cries her first cry 

Of a thousand,

For she is Stella,

After the guitar,  



Because rain and tears

Are separate.

 
3

Those cuff links, that blowfish,

That stuff in the Hefty bag

Are trash of my people -- whose

Bonds are movable like my



Mobile grandmother idling

In the parking lot of La Quinta.

Whosoever speaks her name

Fast in the window brings forth



Light.

 
4

The ballpark all lit up

Did not exist until we turned

Her transistor on and some kid

Whacked a rock back, back . . .



It knocked three feathers

Off the mercury vapor, landed on corrugated

Tin so that the interdigitated

Interrupted their sleep but will



Not be entering this poem.

They can just go back to pressing

On the chest like sorrow and letting

The game sink in its yellow



Case with seventy-two holes

For the speaker and a carrying

Strap.  When the radio broke

I could not sling it like David



Because the strap broke too.

But that was long after sound

Commingling with a high brief whistle

Amid chatter and crack of the bat.



You wouldn't have known her,

I can hear my cousin say.

Her hair was all gray.

It used to be red



But gray is something I heard

Like the water-sucking clay.

But red is what she was

Who like a star revolved



Between three holes of light

Or hung like an eye-droop

In water-cooled air and a dark

Wind takes the summer.

 
5

There is the sound

	Brando makes under

		The wrought iron balcony



In New Orleans in summer

	And Stella sweats

		In her nightgown



And Desire runs

	Along its length

		But all you hear



Is Stanley -- everybody

	Knows -- one word, two

		Syllables, and even the space



Between the stars is awestruck

	That a man can feel such

		Stubborn, stupid language



Crawl out of his brain,

	Into his mouth, and scrape

		The ceiling of heaven --



Stella -- you are beyond,

	Stella -- knock, knock.

		I tap the limousine glass



Like an ape, like Stanley

	Kowalski interdicting silence.

		Stella -- the lights come on



In rooms 3 and 12, a hot

	Humid air turns to pink smoke

		Against the cool adobe wall.