Prayer; Spring

Prayer

Some days I notice sudden shadows, witness quick
flashes of light, and catch a wavering current of sound
with my one tuned ear. If my mother had known these things

when I was young—seen hard rain as the result of fervent wishes
or understood as prayer the trembling concentration of heat
in the palms of her children's hands—would she have counseled me

to pay attention? Then we might have perceived the presence
of our relative, Doctor Charlie, come back after all these years
to remind his offspring of the good ways of living.

Charlie, who could kill a man by dangerous thinking,
or sicken him by shooting into that person's heart
the redhot ember from a manzanita fire.

Grandfather, where are you when we need you?
Have we eaten too many lies?
Have we lost our taste for the primal acorn?

Much was stolen, so many people died. When they began to whip
the Indian children in those boarding schools and no one could help them—
it must have seemed better to retreat to the invisible

mountains where wepamstill goes on going along, where
talking with bears, roasting spring bulbs, and contemplating
the power of butterflies is not strange but beautiful.

I want to be limber in the world of ghosts
who tumble among indecisive clouds in the emigrant cities.
Can I get there from here, even with my wide and sodden ignorance?

Send me a sign, Grandfather. Something to show we are loved
and need not be afraid. Perhaps that power will help us
discern the trail—still barely visible—of fallen,

molten stars that pulse through this eternity.

 

Spring

Because I did not want my mom to know
I didn't say a thing. But one Spring—
I had just turned nineteen—she confronted me.

That day the clouds drifted in as usual,
moving swiftly over the bay and Marin hills,
and two daffodils opened in our yard

in a small patch of sunshine. We
had just finished another bitter,
crazy argument. Standing in my room,

breathing hard in the afternoon cold,
"You're a lesbian," she stated, her voice
blunt with hatred. "Aren't you?"

I flushed. I could feel my throat
tighten with unshed tears. Our fight had been
fierce, mom haranguing me with the question

of what I was going to do with my life
now I'd been kicked out of school and was
jobless. I had no answer, no idea. Her query

terrified me. I looked at my mom's face
which was neither hard nor soft.
"Yes," I answered. "I am." Lesbian

was a dirty word in our family, taboo
like all other sex words and words
about queerness. Shame swelled my tongue,

made it heavy and salty. At once I saw my mom
relax, as if a weight had been lifted from her.
She placed her hands on her hips and nodded.

"Good," she said, "You've told the truth. Now
we have something to work with." I began to cry.
Relief washed over me, unwarranted and frightening.