|
|
Our Ritual Distance
| Article
# : |
15385 |
|
|
Section : |
THE ARTS
|
| Issue
Date : |
12 / 1989 |
347 Words |
| Author
: |
Jean Emerson
|
The Grandmother Books
I am driven into this small corner of my life
Forced to steal these thin morning hours
I listen to the warm purr of the refrigerator
And unfold like a rain lily after a summer squall
I remember the circle of smooth black birds
Feel the updraft and the recurve of their white wing tips
Long for the recent history
The tumbling grey rocks of the Pedernales
The fragile five finger daisy
with its circle of chalk white petals traced in violet
No longer than your thumbnail
but so tough its fine roots shatter the limestone bluffs
I cling to the long slanting memories of the old times
Catch the blue flash of the NRA eagle
nailed to the shuttered gasoline station
The iridescence of a dragonfly hanging
over grass washed flat by last night's flood
I hear Charlie singing "It ain't going to rain no more"
to the thrum of Model A truck tires against tarvey roadbeds
on the way to the mortuary to pick up rented chairs
for the family reunion
In these stolen hours
I remember the Grandmother Books
The echo of whispered incantations
and promises
Shadow Dancing
You want me to tell you of some intense heart felt
joy. That tells me how little you knew our clan.
We no more believe in intense happiness
than in pain or good-bys. They were not permitted.
Are not permitted. Well-taught in caution, we
practice moderation in all things. Shadow
dancing comes to mind. Forever circling like
planets held in our fixed orbits. Ritual
circles. Ritual distance. Ritual space.
After time and space and death we still circle.
Shadow dancing to our furtive, shared beat.
We never touch, never falter. We circle.
We live in faded snapshots. Pale images
I wonder if mama ever thought of those
sturdy plants that grew wild in the fields
...
Read Full Article
|
|
