from Suite: Ida

Two Trains

The countryside slides away, elides trees, sunlight rolls down like a savior. The train shudders and hisses to a stop. Which train? Who is in the wrong spot?

A seat on a train is the site of a war. Ask Gandhi, East Indian in South Africa: Ask me, a colored schoolmarm, in skirts, hat, and gloves.

We lost the battle, and won a war. Equally colored.

There is something about insult that burns bodily as one is seized and dispatched like an angry letter full of inkblots of significance.

Gandhi led his story. I wrote mine, in my way led my match-light.

Hand Writing

I do not have soft hands. My hands have been in too much hot water, water elbows deep, sleeves rolled up as if for a fight, washing, scrubbing, rinsing dirt loose from my siblings’ clothing.

My hands have calluses from writing what hits the nervous system like nails on chalk board of a one room school house where I teach.

The screech echoing the screams.

My Business

I have important business, too vital to be concerned with dross. I have to be my pen, dipped in blood and fire, illuminating the shadows, vanquishing the shadows. I have posted a “Do Not Disturb” sign over my heart. Only Ferdinand, my children, my people, Truth may enter in.

Ida Rewrites

“I, as usual, lost what favor I had by becoming furiously angry.”

I agitate to a fault.

If I were vulgar enough to sing the Blues I would be the Blues

and shake hands with the Devil and bring him to his knees.

I look Fear in the eye. I show no Fear. I look Hate eyeball to eyeball. I do not blink. I must, however, admit difficulty with rivals. Indeed so less than me can they be called rivals? Women! Fellow workers for the Good! History Tellers who omit me!

Yet I cannot hold my peace when holding would benefit my cause and circumstance.

Now I must rewrite. I must not admit

my breach.

Moving Day, 1925

A life is still a life. It is a process of elimination --- moving day. Giving away what will not fit in an apartment. Five rooms. Once filled a house. Fourteen. Fourteen into five. Division and cast asides. The boulevard is wide. Trees abound. Tall and generous. People picnic, sleep in the lush grass. A big front yard. Bodies stretch out like flags Of peace. I am a housewife. A life is still a life.