Signs
A bird in the house was one.
When a robin flew in our open door
and almost beat itself to death
under the skillet cupboard,
we caught it in a dishtowel.
As we released it, I saw the dark look
mother and grandmother exchanged.
When a dog howled,
grandmother shook her head and cried.
Keeping vigil, she tried to decipher
the window's darkness,
a pine tree's withered top,
burned splinters pointing toward
a person sitting nearby,
ravens' calls.
Even birth could predict death.
Born in a rain storm--death
by drowning. Born with a rope nearby--
hanged. Born in fair weather--
a proper death, rich in years,
covered with homemade quilts,
surrounded by friends.
My Appalachian grandmother
never studied the Leonid Shower,
but knew falling stars were omens, too.
Flickering lights arced overhead,
landing some place
nobody knew.
Scissors and Knives
My flesh-colored tights lay in
shreds around the room like
discards from a
butcher shop.
I hated them--the way they sagged
between my thighs and bunched
around my ankles. Grandmother promised
we'd cut them up the last day of school,
so she and I sat cross-legged
in the middle of my bed and slit
the fleshy, stretched cotton
from the rubberized waist bands,
cut the tights to pieces
til our thumb joints were raw.
We laughed and screamed as we
threw the cotton confetti into the air.
Today, I can't remember where
I've stored my sewing machine.
My knives I keep right
in the middle of the kitchen
in the spice drawer,
next to the ground cinnamon,
the little black
roses of cloves.
Flight
When leaves get the courage,
they let the branch go
and scud across the landscape
with rain and geese
preaching to anyone willing
to look up and listen.
My friend can play
people into repentance just by
stroking the piano keys.
He closes his eyes and tilts
his head toward the keyboard
the way a bridegroom kisses
the throat of his beloved.
Every night he dreams he can fly.
Once, he was afraid he might fall,
as if dreams have gravity.