by Dretta Grace White
On five fingers
I.
So…, and he digged a grave
and laid her in it,
and he raised a mound above her
and he sat himself down and lamented
so sore
that at last he died.And so they were all dead together. *
—
Carry me down to the sea
Mother dear, Mother dearCarry me down, Mother dear
For I would rather lie
In the sea, in the sea
Then here in the land that killed me †
II.
It is sad
It is sad
That the long weariness
Of the earth
Is not enough
To repay the loss of one hand
III.
If
For some reason
The whorls of a flower
Are not symmetrical
With respect to form
Remember
That in some countries
The understanding of bridges
Is older
Than the building of houses
Or women weaving
That the occasion
Of coolness
Is not consistent
With the laying of snow
On flat fields
In distant states
That there is no charm
For this
IV.
a.)
In mid sentence
A woman
Whose living
Was the counting of birds
Stopped
A boy
Forgot who he was
And was overwhelmed by the waves
A phrase
Left us
To be born as the wind
b.)
Only a hand
Here is a hand
As white
As any
In winter
Still
Only a hand
Oh, to be the moon
And know
That whiteness
Is winter
That blackbirds
Will be counted
Sighing after the wind
Oh, to be the wind
Sent
Sighing
V.
Memory secedes
And even the sea
Will not bring it back
Place a glass
Over this hand
And keep it so
Keep it as a hand
Longing for love
To come back again
Keep it as a hand
Too small
To be a mountain
Or the sea
Too still
To be a wind
Or a sail
Keep it as hand
Let it rest
Let it die
Let it return
Let it remember
Keep it as a hand
And even the sea
Will not bring it back
Even the sea
{ 3 comments… read them below or add one }
Dretta,
Sly. Very sly. And April is Poetry Month.
Dretta, yet again you show how poetry can live in a place both before and after words expire. Thank you for five breaths that bring us to a meditative state.
Amicus poeticae,
Neal
these poems are the best I have ever read