Sharon's Song
This summer’s harvest yields
more than corn and soybean,
crops that nourish and sustain.
Planting and reaping finished,
time now for the wetlands’
resurrection, the second coming
of a million trees. We must
allow the land to heal.
Rows of turkey houses gone.
Boer goats no longer browse
the coastal Bermuda fields.
Deep in the woods, headstones
ringed with red cedars recall
a family from long ago.
Listen, and you may hear
children’s laughter lingering,
or hoof-beats of weary horses.
Markings on a beech tree record
Indian trading. Unseen, a steam
engine sinks silently into the earth.
The wind sings grace notes
through two pines that abide
side by side. Listen.
The land whispers back.
Harrison Creek again flows
serpentine and slow into the Cape Fear.
The bald cypress walk
on their knees, but do not leave.
Muskrat and marsh hawks return.
Orchard orioles, buntings,
and sand cranes come
back to the longleaf pine.
Cries of geese fill the air.
A hawk circles, the needle of
his gaze finding prey. The scent
of bear hovers everywhere.
White-tailed deer, bobcat,
and east coast panther roam
the woods. We have taken.
Now we give.
This land holds our history,
the mystery of what we know
and cannot know. One hundred
thousand years ago, meteors
struck the Mother County,
creating oval lakes, all with
a single orientation. Follow
the wild iris to a Carolina Bay.
Old ghosts thrive here, at home
with the wild things, the thought-
less seasons. When you hold
a palm full of Croatan muck,
you may feel another hand
brush your fingers closed.
The rich soil a reminder:
The land remains. Changed now
as we are changed, but forever
connected by time and breath.
From this fragment of life
A new future rises.
Sunlight falls through pines
as if through cathedral windows,
yields to darkness
and returns.
This poem was written for the Resurrection of the Wetlands and Birth of the NC Farm Center for Innovation and Sustainability / August 8, 2008 In honor of Sharon Valentine and in memory of Steve Quinn, whose vision brought together state and federal government, nonprofit agencies, and private landowners in a unique partnership that honors the land.
After Solstice
Wind shakes the house. Windows chatter
like teeth against the cold,
clouds cover the mountains,
the stove still warm, red coals waiting
to be coaxed into flame.
Apples, potatoes, jars of beans fill
the cellar. Bags of strawberries, blueberries,
pints of pesto pack the freezer.
I’ve waited all year for winter, the long
hunkering in, silence of snow falling,
the beautiful violence of sunlight
battering ice sheathed branches —
the snap, the slow melting.
Virabhadrasana
Breathe, my yoga teacher instructs
and twenty two still mountains inhale,
bring our palms to namaste, eyes closed,
breathing in, breathing out, deep and slow.
Warrior Two, she says, and I sweep
my arms out, horizontal, step my left
foot left, exhale and pivot
to the right, root my feet
into the floor, then lunge,
right knee bent. Years ago I learned
this pose, but then my hand grasped
a long thin foil, left arm curved up.
I was a warrior, dressed in white,
mesh mask shielding my face. Because
I could not fell and tackle, I learned
to feint, parry, riposte, and attack.
Blade blunted and bound in that ballet
of wit and skill, I lost myself
in the next move. No time for meditation.
The self that stands in Tadasana still calls
en’ garde.
Purpose
It has no purpose, this
sitting for hours curled
on top of my oak desk
beside a rain plashed window
at dusk peering through
binoculars at a black bear
asleep on the mulch pile
beneath a wild cherry,
a volunteer, trash tree,
that also has no purpose.
I could be cleaning house,
doing laundry, writing
socially responsible verse
or soulful sonnets
that would make readers weep
or even think.
But here I sit with no purpose
other than to watch this bear lift
a round ear, shift position, rise,
and sniff the air. I want
to go out in the drizzle, stroke
his damp fur, nuzzle
into that oily coat, and breathe
the scent of the whole wild world.
The Bears
The bears returned last night.
The mother and her three cubs
slept in the mound of leaves.
They left deep indentations
where summer-sated bellies
and massive paws lay curled
beneath the maple’s outstretched limbs
and the quarter moon’s pale light.
All day, while I raked leaves into piles,
the bears were watching. They moved
silent and unseen among evergreens,
gray trunks, and branches as they had
all summer. Preparing for winter sleep,
they stuffed themselves on acorns and grubs.
One late summer day they came into
the orchard. The cubs shimmied
up the young apple trees, bent
one bough to the ground and broke
another in their play. The mother
took her time selecting fallen apples,
and those she could reach balanced
on her hind legs. She carried these
one by one to her cubs, gently
urged them to taste and chew.
She knows how long winter lasts.
Figs
Mother swore nothing would grow
for her --cuttings, bulbs, annuals
all withered and died in her care.
Even hardy forsythia refused to bloom.
Only the fig tree survived, a crooked stick
she thrust into red clay beside the back steps.
She knew nothing of the legend -- ignored
warnings the smelly, sticky leaves would overhear
arguments inside the house. The tree thrived
on morning sun, occasional rain, nothing more.
Knotted limbs embraced the wrought-iron banister,
their green mittens shaded the kitchen window,
spilled over the steps into a tangle I cursed
each time I took the stairs. Mother didn’t
seem to mind the mess, refused requests
to prune the tree, trusted its promised bounty.
To our surprise the tree complied. All summer
we ate the sweet, brown fruit of neglect.
Road Trip Conversation
Driving back from Clarksville
we talked about road kill
and cannibalism. You said
you’d rather eat your friends
than devour an enemy
with such an intimate act.
I thought of flesh I had tasted,
the boys in high school, who
crumbled like cornbread
in the back seat of their father’s car,
my first lover, all salt
and cloves, my ex-husband,
nicotine and malt,
the spicy taste of men I sampled
like a buffet, picking bits and pieces.
I have known hunger
that could make me kill.
I have sucked clean the bones
of strangers. If given a choice,
would you offer yourself
as sustenance to a friend
or feed your own survival?
Beside you now I am ravenous
for the ripe figs of your fingers
folded around the steering wheel.
POEMS FROM THE SERIAL KILLER’S DAUGHTER
The Serial Killer’s Daughter
I. About the Daughter
The serial killer’s daughter hangs damp sheets on the line.
She likes the yeasty way the wind fills the cloth and how the sun sweetens the
threads.
When she holds the clothespins between her teeth, she tastes bread and salted butter.
She no longer worries about trying to hold on to the brass pole of the carousel.
The serial killer’s daughter can hold anything – or anyone – she pleases.
Preferring familiar company, she surrounds herself with dahlias and lavender.
She always rides the wooden tiger because there is no bear.
Why are the animals always one step ahead of the humans?
The serial killer’s daughter knows how frightening a creature walking upright can be, so
she always walks as if she were about to waltz.
Her hands write a language only she can read.
She’s not a figment of anyone’s imagination.
She is sunlight striping murky swamp water.
II. More About the Serial Killer’s Daughter
The serial killer’s daughter wears tight curls made of cypress roots and washes them in
buttermilk from the moon.
When mud oozes between her toes she no longer worries about wiping her feet before
stepping through the door.
She likes to touch people she loves on the nape of the neck and feel the rocky landscapes
of their spines.
Her heart measures her intentions and stretches them in a chain around her wrist so she
will not forget.
The serial killer’s daughter waits for no one.
It never matters if she is on time. Whose time?
Time is irrelevant, like memories she saves and forgets.
Because her life needs seasoning she grows spearmint, basil, and lemon balm.
The serial killer’s daughter is always leaving Robeson County.
For her, the stone covered with moss and mica that she carries in
her pocket contains a galaxy.
Velma’s Warning
What lives within me rises –
a river swollen with storm water
overflows, gushes downstream
deposits its twiggy debris –
my life,
muddy, uncharted – swallows
everything without warning.
Even the shallows hold
beautiful danger. Burnished stones
await the casual step. I am not
like the willow, always
in need –
or the cypress trees that bend
to their knees but cannot leave.
Whatever is reflected here
I hold.
A Body Count
When I close my eyes to invite
sleep, your face floats
before me. Your smile twists –
and I know, Mama.
The man you married
after Daddy died, old
and sick but nowhere
near dying: you nursed
his demands, his disapproval.
I know what you did, Mama, when
he complained about your pills,
threatened to leave.
I know the next man died crossing
the interstate late one moonless night
while you waited out of sight. I know
three people in your care failed.
Two died. I know Granny, your mother,
gave what a mother would. You stole
her money for the handful
of yellow pills that kept you
bleary-eyed and stumbling or
unconscious in your room.
Granny never sick a day until
she discovered her savings gone.
One week of stomach flu and
she died too. I know, Mama,
this man you aimed to marry died
the same way, by your side.
I know how you consoled his daughter,
your quick tears on her cheek.
I know what you say,
how your words slide over
the edge of belief
until you convince yourself
your grief is real. I know, Mama,
someone has to stop you.
After My Mother is Arrested and Charged with Murder
It’s not as easy as you might think,
up every morning, dressed and out
to the only job I’ve ever had –
the promised promotion gone
even though I’m the best at what I do,
sorting coats, sweaters by size.
I know the inventory, where to find
hairpins, which aisle holds light bulbs.
I keep up with the sales and never let
anyone use my discount. Ten years
I’ve never missed a day or clocked in late.
Yesterday my boss laid his hand
on my shoulder, said, I’m sorry and
disappeared before I turned around.
I feel customers stare and sometimes
think I hear a whispered, monster.
Or was it mother that I heard?
Everyone wants to know
what’s going to happen next.
I’ll tell you: at the end of the day
four small arms will circle my neck,
I’ll fry chicken, bake rolls, and pray
to any god that will listen.
