The White Shirt, and: Kneading, and: Please Scream Inside Your Heart

The White Shirt

Sometimes, a teacher proposeswe write about somethinginsignificant, or a friend requests

that poems and posts not get sopolitical. Imagine something ordinary,something simple

and free: a white shirtclipped on a clothesline andfluttering in the breeze. But I can't

slip it on with easeas some might,though I might long, at times,

for a respite. I try to imaginehow quiet it must be, caughtin a cloth so white

it seems to possessno color at all, only the purebright essence of light

and reality. And unlike snakeswhy would we moltfrom a skin we can't perceive?

            In the ordinarymoments of my day,I try not to see

in the length of ironed linena turban torn from a grandfather's headmoments before he's thrown down

on a suburban street, palm treeswaving quietly. Or a burka rippedfrom a woman's head

as she's shoved like a pinballfrom fist to fist on a crowded trainamong men who want to rise and reclaim.

Or a towel that wraps a babyborn at the border, who is greetedby barbed wire and searchlights

probing shadows like a white knife.As much as I try, I cannot writeof white shirts

without likening them firstto the hood of a Klansmanafire in a darkening wood.

I can't think of it (cloth starched,pressed cleanly into folds,steam rising from hemmed edges)

without envisioning heatvanishing from beneath a shroudon cement, from the dark skin of a boy

allowed to be dead for hourson a public street, his soul restlessand lingering above him,

his shirt a beacon of lightI cannot turn from, sosearing its clarity.

From the shirt, a white shirt,I can't unlink the chain of policewho stood shoulder to shoulder

holding sheets to block the viewas though not even the suncould judge who or what

had seemed to keep their peacewhile the boy's life unspooleda ribbon of red

downhill. I try to graspthat in some cultures, whiteis a symbol of purity; in others,

an expression of grief.

Kneading

They call it kneadingas in dough or massage, this act

of pawing at my bathrobeby kittens. How lasting the memory

of the mother's comfort,babies pushing at her belly

to bring the milk forth.The gift of warmth

while the mother groomswith a rough tongue, or simply waits,

regal and elegant, dozingand blinking over her litter.

The kittens press onand bare their claws

unaware of the pain they causein their shows of affection.

They dig now as thoughfor memories that precede them,

claw or no claw, the insistenceof paws against fur or flesh, nuzzling

for the nipple. I won't forgetthe sting of my baby's lips

at my breast after a long nightof biting, how raw the skin grows

long before any teeth show. WhenI see new mothers clutching

little bundles at their hips,guiding tiny lips to take

what they will giveand give and give

I still achewith the phantom

spring of milk. Howwe need and we need.

We need into each otherand out of each other.

In the early days,in a haze of lost sleep,

my infant's initial nibblestruck me an ancient summon

urging forth the prehistoric:a distant call—

emergent, embryonic,meant to burgeon

and bloom. Then the milksprang forth like a warm elixir.

A call and responseI was hardwired to answer.

Please Scream Inside Your Heart

[Translation of Japanese regulation banning screaming on amusement-park rides]

Please screaminside your heart: holdyour terror, your errors, your

regrets apartfrom those around you. Keepa clinical...