lost and safe.

In Ithaca,
even the lake that is in the nearby fields
can moisten the dry season
of the farms right outside of town,

could make men move mountains
for the healing green of the inner hills
glistening like slices of winter melon.

and we were graceful
as graceful can be

But we left home
to move freely.

There
in Ithaca

I gathered patience,
learning to walk
without breaking
the grace of my movements
dormant as butter cups
as redundant as the farmyard hens.

But I didn’t travel far
in surviving,
learning
to quiet the demons,
the noisy mouths of men.

And there was a young woman
who lived near the lake
who made jade green jewelry
next to the house where I watched
the Aurora Borealis
and the rising tide of locusts.

only I swarmed with others
to inundate another shore.

In Cleveland,
there are many streets
where women can stride along with men.

And in this other wilderness
the possibilities,
the loneliness
the emptiness
can strangulate like jungle vines.

The meager provisions and sentiments
of once obliging to
fermented roots consisting of dominoes and firecrackers-

set up in a flimsy house
in an apartment
in a forest of another nightless city.

A giant snake rattling above and

where dough-faced landlords
slip in and out of your keyholes,
taking claims you don’t understand,
tapping into your communications systems
of laundry lines and restaurant chains.

You find you need Ithaca
your one fragile glimpse of identification-
a jade link
on your left wrist
you remember the lake
and the stars
and the bare feet
and legs to walk
and thoughts to fly
and there is a body of water.
There
at that lake-

the constant space of your
happiness.

notes from a native granddaughter.

I wrap the blue towel
after washing in the pacific,
around the damp
weight of hair, heavy
as a sleeping cat,
and sit out on the porch.
Still dripping water,
it'll be dry by just about dinner time,
by the time the dust
settles off your shoes,
though it's only five
past noon. Think
of the luxury: how to use
the afternoon like the stretch
of lawn spread before me.
There's the laundry
sun-warm clothes at twillight,
and the mountain of stringbeans
in my lap. Each one,
I'll break and snap
thoughtfully in half.

But there is this slow arousal.
The small buttons
of my cotton blouse
are pulling away from my body.
I feel the strain of threads,
the swollen magnolias
heavy as a flock of birds
in the tree. Already,
the red velvet cake
is rising in the oven.
Set at 350 degrees
I know you'll say it makes
your mouth dry
and I'll watch you
drench each slice of it
with whole milk
and lick the plate clean.

So much hair, my grandmother
used to say, grabbing
the thick bun
in her hands while we washed
the breakfast dishes, discussing
dresses and pastries.
My mind sometimes elsewhere
as we did the morning chores together.
Sometimes, a few strands
would catch in her cocktail ring.
I worked harder then,
anticipating the hour
when I would let the tightly woven bun
down
at night to roll around in the strips of sheets,
knotted and tied,
while she slept in tight blankets near the
air-conditioner downstairs.
My hair, freshly washed
like a measure of wealth,
like a bridal veil
I used to dream about.
Crouching in the grass,
you would wait for the signal,
for the movement of curtains.

for virginia
and for charlie.