Six Questions

* Who are you and whom do you love?

When I find out the truth about my birth,
I already have two children of my own. 


* What do you remember about the earth?

I am six and the terrible grandmother has come to live
with us. She smells of tobacco and the green eucalyptus-
mint Valda pastilles she is always popping into her mouth 
from a tin hidden in her robe pocket. A game I like to play 
with some of the neighborhood kids involves taking turns 
putting Necco wafers in each other's mouths while intoning 
"The body of Christ." We are careful not to bite down 
so as not to cause the body of Christ to bleed. Then 
we walk around the grassy perimeter of the truck yard 
pretending we are floating, until the candy has melted 
and our tongues turn lime green, orange, or pink.  


* How will you begin?

A book about mountains, and roads carved into them by hand.
A book made of animal offerings suspended in the trees.
A book about salt blocks left in the valley for deer.


* Describe a morning you woke without fear.

I am in third grade. I am standing in the bathroom in front
of the mirror, swiveling the tiny little bit of bone that's been
lodged for as long as I can remember in my upper gum, 
right above a front tooth, back and forth. When it finally 
comes loose, I hold it between my index finger and thumb. 


* Tell me what you know about dismemberment.

When I first come across the word "debridement," I pronounce
the middle vowel as a long ī. As in bride. Because one of my daughters
is taking a Women's Studies course on sex and marriage, I try to recall 
what I learned at her age about such things. It was a time when feminine
products were unwieldy things: a bulk of cotton wrapped with gauze, 
safety-pinned to the crotch of underwear. Mostly, my mother told me 
to behave while handing me a copy of On Becoming A Woman, a book 
written and published in 1951 by a male doctor. The cover depicted 
a brunette with what might have been described as a becoming 
flush on her cheeks, walking past two young men in suits. 
The one sitting on a bench has two-tone saddle shoes on his feet. 
The other, standing, sports a bow tie. Both of them are obviously 
looking her up and down. Checking her out. She is definitely aware. 


[Note: as a lead-in to the 12-year anniversary Sunday, 
20 November 2022, of my writing at least a poem a day, 
I decided to use Bhanu Kapil's famous "12 Questions" 
as a prompt. There are the first six. My students in Advanced 
Poetry Workshop and I have been using it too, also because 
one of our course texts this semesteer was Chen Chen's 
Your Emergency Contact Has Experienced an Emergency
he also uses "12 Questions" for a number of poems in his new book.]

Reflection

burning some old barn
beams for fuel

the 19th-century knots
pop like pistols

and my train of thought
goes off the rails

forlornly blowing
its figurative whistle

into a night bright
with fallen snow

we’re all fugitives
from the present moment

in our distracted states
of america

no wonder it takes gunshots
to wake us up

i hear footsteps
in the kitchen

and find myself
in the bathroom mirror

happy to dwell
in this icy stillness

it’s the future
i’d like to escape

a choose-your-own-
doom story

we picture as a shining city
on a hill which once

might have been more
like a mountain

Poem with Crabs and Revised History and Social Science Standards

You're wrong: evolution isn't something that stopped
happening sometime in the past—If it helps, think  

more of those moving walkways you see at airport 
terminals, with people standing on the right who seem

perfectly content to let themselves be borne 
along at a steady rate, while others who want 

to move faster than the conveyor belt stride through 
on the left so the plane doesn't leave without 

them. Then there are those who eye change 
with suspicion; or worse, insist on a story 

they might have pickled or slapped together 
along the way: for instance, the statewide mandate

to teach schoolchildren that Native Americans 
were "the first immigrants" to this nation. 

That one is plainly a lie even Magellan or Columbus 
would see right through—after all, didn't they 

want to be the first? Maybe a better subject for study 
is the evolution of crabs, which excites scientists

no end because apparently, they have evolved 
at least five times over the last 250 million years, 

sometimes losing crabby features, sometimes gaining 
newly interesting ones. Why some are small as a pea 

and others wear the face of doomed Samurai 
warriors on their backs is still a mystery. 

Some are true or carcinized crabs, which 
makes it sound like they might have served 

jail time.  There are forward-moving crabs and 
crabs that only walk sideways; crabs that swim 

and others that live in the mud. Crabs with giant 
claws become shell-crushing predators 

in an ecological arms race. You can tell the false 
crabs by counting how many pairs of walking legs

they have: three instead of four, with a miniature, 
sorely undeveloped-looking pair in the rear. 
 

Physics Library

Today, a library and lounge in a building
next to a pond and fountain were dedicated

to the late father of a writer friend. His father
was a Physics professor in the university 

where I teach. When he started teaching, 
I must have been five years old; at that age,

the most urgent thing was either the itchy 
sweater I was always made to wear, or how 

my kindergarten teacher wouldn't let me go
to the bathroom until recess. But in the new

library, we stood in the space where students
will work on formulae or equations, next to six 

mahogany bookcases. They're filled with books 
like The Theory of Everything, The Quest to Explain 

All Reality, Theoretical Mechanics of Particles 
and Continua, or The Geometry of Spacetime.

Old colleagues and students stepped up with 
stories—one said she wanted so badly to drop

the course; then was glad the professor wouldn't 
let her. And I thought, this is what it can mean 

for a life to connect.  Right under the ceiling, 
hundreds of wires all different colors ran through 

the corridors, each with a different purpose. Circuits
were laid for heat, mechanics, light, electricity, 

magnetism. And there must have been someone 
in your life who once pointed out the chalk-white

stars, explained the shape and motion of bodies; 
the energy of wind, the mysteries of water. 


~ for Michael Khandelwal

Summer Postmortem

summer is dead
i found her green leaf body

at the foot of an oak
in the first snow

blanketing the valley
the smell of diesel

100 feet downridge
there’s a fallen nest

woven from strips of wild
gravevine bark

the trees are becoming
more and more vacant

though they shriek
and moan in the wind

i remember what jesus
said about new wine

and old wine skins
like this katydid lasting

long enough to be filled
with the unknown

like this spruce weeping
white beards of sap

from dozens of rows
of sapsucker-drilled wells

and all those wounds
somehow still open

summer is dead
they crucified her

two deer bound past
without seeing me

pursued as they are
by one with antlers

holding them high
almost shining

his rack as the hunters call it
his naked tree

Becoming the Ancestor

Can you imagine others who'll come
         after you (if it were possible, meaning, 
if the world you know wouldn't have
         ended yet), sorting through photos 
on thumb drives or in the Cloud, piecing
        together parts of stories they heard second- 
or third-hand? Perhaps the one you took outside 
        your first apartment, standing in front of your first 
car (a blue compact sedan) with the key in one hand 
        and the loan  agreement in the other, wondering 
if you should've smiled when the agent at the dealership
       boomed Congratulations! doesn't this make you 
feel more American now? and wondering if you 
       should have told him your naturalization 
ceremony was two months down the road? 
      Perhaps, that first Christmas when you and your
husband went back and forth about going out 
     for a real tree, and then when you finally decided,
it was too late and there was no more to be had
     from any of the lots nearby? Will they notice
that in some of the pictures taken in more 
      recent summers, your hair has gotten visibly
thinner at the top? The panoramic view 
      makes the living room wider and the kitchen
somehow more cozy. There's the hand-me-down
     piano that took five people to carry across
the threshold. There's the counter perennially
     piled with books out of place next to a bowl
of fruit, where on holidays or celebrations you'd 
     lay out a food offering for the ancestors.

Horizontal

it’s easy to stop seeing
what’s on the horizon

people in the valley
don’t really believe in it

what summer makes seem
no less than a mountain

winter shows as it is
no more than a hill

from my front porch
a sudden influx of sky

after the leaves fall
look it’s snowing

the flakes come to settle
in their multitudes

well into the evening
lightness piling up

between the trees
no more omnivorous earth

but a colony of the clouds
pale and puritanical

against which the individual
trunks stand out

an absent crowd
dreaming

together
underground

and after my own sleep
i rise and look again

on the underside
of a snowy limb

a gray squirrel is walking
upside-down

Dressing for the End of the World

            According to recent reports, it's nine years before 
climate crises reach their tipping point. Apocalypse is on
           everyone's minds, everyone's lips, everyone's playlist. 
Grate the cheese coarse or fine, you know it comes from cows.
           In stores across the UK, activists take milk from shelves,
kick bottles across the floor after pouring out the contents—
          melodrama of protest to turn meat-eaters and -producers
off their predisposition as carnivores. Couldn't that have
          quenched the thirst of children in refugee camps, 
served a purpose other than such lofty waste? What are we
          under obligation to do, what could we even do? Today, #World-
WarIII was trending (again) after missiles blew up grain facilities.
          You can make up stories if you want, but everyone's tired. Tired of
Zooming, tired of the virtual, of arguments over what it means to use
          -x in Filipinx or Latinx or other gendered words for people.
Vintage clothing stores have popped up everywhere—
            thrifting's become not only trendy but a way to cut waste,
reduce emissions and water consumption. Just look up the rate of
           pollution caused by fast fashion. Upstate last summer, I 
nabbed a Marimekko dress for $2 and was as happy as a
          legit fashionista might be...  I'm not digressing. All this is
 just to say I've been wavering on a more daily basis between
         heartache and fear of the inevitable: looming mortality,
fuse boxes shorting in the night while we sleep, the will I
        drafted ten years ago, mostly listing my emotional assets—
but then, suddenly, I want a fedora and a faux fur jacket.
          

First snow

My camera took this photo today and I absolutely love it. I don’t know, it just feels like my digital equivalent of a Rothko or something.

I think it may have been a close-up of one of these blackberry leaves:

Yes, it was our first snowfall of the year. We got three more inches around dusk. Sleep-deprived as I was, it was wonderful to amble around the mountain watching winter lay down its first blank page.

One thing to be said for all that blankness: my photo files are smaller! Fewer leaves mean less data—in more ways than one, of course.

Winter days are strange in how quickly the magic can come and go. You have to be ready. The power went out midday when I was a mile and a half from the houses, watching the first flakes sift down through bare branches. Power cuts are common but there’s only one first snow of the season so I took my time getting back. Just as I was about to hook up jumper cables to Mom’s ailing generator, she hollered that the lights were on.

So back out I went, after making some hot chocolate and putting it in a thermos to have up in the memorial grove. Delightful to watch it snow from under the spruces. It was Dad who taught me how to make cocoa—one of his few culinary specialties apart from blueberry buckwheat buttermilk pancakes and soft-boiled eggs.

And then another slow wander through another portion of the forest. I justified part of it as walking the property line, a good thing to do during deer season. I only saw one set of deer prints, but that’s to be expected. They’re laying up. What kind of idiot goes out in a snowstorm?