A Grove of Trees, and: The Understory

A Grove of Trees

The old women knewthe men were policebefore I did,waiting for a buswhen Vice surrounded meall dressed alike,as though plainclotheshad only one meaning,of course, I wasn't in my skin—small and tightlike an immature fig,dense, a little black hole,when I finally figuredhow those menwould use meif they forced mein their car.At first I thoughthand over the licenseand the cops go away.I didn't know what else to try;I wasn't the girlthey were looking for.Except I was.The old women sawbefore I saw,thick-boned womenwith arms of slurry,women who pulled wire cartshome from market twice a week all those yearsafter their hearts brokewith the news from Poland,old women at eightin the morningin our poor neighborhood,already done shoppingat Boy's Market,schlepping their cartsloaded with potatoesand milkand Weber's Bread.You can't reason with power.I didn't knowan elderly Jewish manwould crossthe perimeter,walk right intothe interrogation,he didn't have timeto lift his mechanicalvoice boxto the hole in his neckand no time to speakbefore they struck himin the chest.He staggered back,still trying to raisehis buzzing machine.I didn't knowwhat the grandmothersintendedin the wide morning light,after the bonesand bulldozersand years of grief—they formed a grovearound usand did not speak—this is how grandmothers muster,silence, iron eyes, not one leaf moving,this is how they meet force—light came stronger,they waited in silence,I held stilland did not look,forbiddento see their faces,forbidden to gazeon the LAPD,because looks can tiltshame to rage.The old women calledon heart wireswe are your mothers too,and they were large,a grove of trees,the quiet from the leavesflowing onto street cornersonto the little knotof cops, the girl,the edges of the leavesdisappearinginto light,they never said a word,but everythingI needed to knowwaited in their silence—it took decadesto decipher—grandmothers builta door with their mind,and then they helped methrough it,I heard inside my bodyDaughter, get on the bus,and the light was blueand the air was chilland the bus rolled upand the door swung open.

The Understory

Through this window, the way she iswithout me in the sycamore, fox squirreldescending to the understory, quickand timorous, deep of eye, smallmuscled forepaws.        Past morning now at my barewhite table, a window opening ontothe world and finally a squirrel arrives—unfurling her motile tail with a flourish,that mutable organ, fleur-de-lis, ash-gold plume, peacock's broom, lightningplay of neurons in a pleasure burst—what could this shapeshifter want?                                I remember howyou told me once with your eyes whatyou wanted, and I understood instantly—that way of knowing so entire.                                                        Sea fogin the gum trees, autumn sun steepedin vatic mist. Dream-leaf among thequantum on the asphalt.                                                        And I knewat once, too, the moment I was banished,though we lay together another season.How sleek my squirrel in russet and gray—is it curiosity that leads her to pick upa fallen sycamore leaf, pummel it withher paws and carry it away?                                                        What are youdoing, little mother, what could you wantwith that leaf?                                       The wind nudges the doorshut behind me, reticent wind, quiet assome wild thing, glimpsedand vanishing