Water Ceremonies

1.

To pour. First, to lift the heavy pail.
Let us consider morning,
a child cross-legged on a tile floor
bent over the water garden. She
wears a flowered apron over shorts.
She half-fills emptiness to leave room
for the half measure of light
to fill up every iota of space,
replaces the lid carefully
to balance on the lip of the vessel.
Who is the beneficiary here?
We ask her but she doesn’t say.

 

2.

To lead and delegate. First, to name
the Club with code, initials only.
Then to find a mission:
all girls against all boys.
We vow to like all girls
no matter if they are mean or good,
to hate all boys
no matter if they are kind or bad.
You, Carlotta, are fearful and must not be.
If you will change, sign here.
If not, resign. Here is a line.
You, Veronica, will be first.
You will make decisions.
If you so choose, sign here.
If not, resign. Here is another line.
We ask you only for your pledge.
Here they drink.

 

3.

To lift up. She takes one side,
I take the other. The heavy waves.
Together we catch the ocean.
If we are careful, we can carry back
what’s salty to the berm of the wall
we’ve made, pour out the water
to make a moat. She takes one side,
I take the other. So our childhoods pass.

 

4.

To go on. Then I knew he was odd.
His arms too long. His hip thrust at a twist.
He balanced on the fountain, walked the brim.
Splashing to the center he could stand on one leg,
but his eye was cast. He was born with a caul.
What could I do? Already he was loved.
His voice in the morning fluted
a name. He knew who I was.
Others might cast him as ugly.
I gave him a halo, bent to praise.

Wilt

When the phone rings
Aaron says hello
and I ask, what are you doing?
He says, building orchid petals
out of thin sheet silver.

Now I know something important
about the body
left behind in shards
which seem to have melted
into the body of my child.

Then my mother
from her temple of brain
says something to her daughter
about rain and rocks something
about the shape of earth
as night pulls a skullcap
over the mountains.
She seems to want me to notice sky
as a wave of salt and pepper hair
falling over an eye, something that winks.

Son

He is always saying and telling me
something urgent in the same tones
I use when I am telling him something
urgent but nobody is listening.
We are alike and unalike.
I like him I do.
He says he likes me
So what’s the problem.

The problem is birth.
What an opera,
the lights, the dais,
the cast of characters wearing
the same gown.
We’re both there
forever. I am.
Where is he?
He’s left the building

Entered the stadium
where the team is getting ready
to tear each other and everyone apart.
Is he garbing up? He says no.
But I can see his pads in the backfield
still skin on the cow’s back. Io,
I think and he laughs.

He/She: The Bike

Aaron is leaving
or is he coming home?

One woman I am, or the girl,
hitches up her socks, clips
one corduroy pant leg close
and unlocks her bike. Soon
she’ll be flying down the hill
we hiked up.

It’s time to split
myself into two women,
or no, a woman and a girl.

Aaron has left the door open
behind his new backpack
hitched up on his shoulder
as he bends to enter the car.

I am pushing up the hill
what someone promised was wings
as he turned a wrench in the spokes
and bolted together new life.