Sarah
Jan. 1, 1972
I will begin by saying
I am Sarah,
wearing an ancient mountain
for a body,
sometimes the moon,
On loose days,
I confuse my grasses with my hair,
mix my birds in sun and deep.
Don’t worry Father,
I’m not crazy, just
flexible.
After all
there is that
thread
or quiet pool
where the always of me lives
eating the old dead dances,
singing them new again.
Feb. 4, 1972
I went to see Anne today.
We drank coffee in her
cluttered kitchen,
Molly bellowing out back.
Molly is a cow.
Sometimes
we climb the hill pasture,
lean against the fence.
Molly always puts her chin
on the rail between us,
three women,
we understand each other.
In the kitchen I told Anne about
the wood smell of my guitar,
playing,
careful scales
while the baby’s asleep
or songs with
single notes
falling over each other,
while Jennifer chases the cat
around the house.
Then I remembered
such uneasy,
seeing David heavy in his chair
at dinner,
too tired.
I feel guilty for having so much fun.
Anne said she feels that way too sometimes,
and we put our cups in the sink.
In the living room
Anne and Spencer have a bay window
with a double bed and
piles of pillows,
and afternoon’s
sun.
We curl up there,
Anne and I,
listen to music,
talk about our men or
the children.
Today we brushed each other’s hair,
sitting cross legged,
then stretched out face to face
and read poems.
When she touched my breast
with one finger
from root to tip,
It was as if
she were seeing something
for the first time,
And I
was seeing it too,
this swell of
handful wonder.
I walked home through winter trees
and late sun.
At dinner
David talked about his day,
how Herman hid in the classroom
eating a whole bag of marshmallow
during recess.
I wanted to tell him
about what happened with Anne,
the way I’d tell about
seeing drops of dew frozen
on a spider’s web,
or the way I’d share
the first summer plum.
Instead I chewed my green beans,
realizing,
I don’t really like green beans.
When we go to bed,
I will lie close to his man’s body
and keep my secret
until I am sure
he will not hurt himself with it.
Feb. 25, 1972
Winter
dropped on me today
with ghost black wind
so hard, I wanted to
get under the covers
for ever.
Actually
it’s dank and foggy,
no wind at all,
just my own
melodrama.
God you didn’t make things
like I want them to be!
Cats kills birds, placing them
delicately
on my front porch,
or worse yet,
bring them into the kitchen.
Children fight,
Grownups fight!
People die of cancer,
people die.
That’s the worst insult of all,
dying,
helpless as an infant,
like my Grandmother
day after day
calling for her mamma.
April 5, 1973
At Rachel’s house
there is a silver-haired man
with pulls me eyes,
intimate without out touching.
imagine our naked bodies
ruffling each other.
would I lose the wonder of you,
after,
on damp sheets?
Would you light a cigarette,
and I,
getting a headache, furtive,
would I trembled,
having risked my man’s trust
for this?
June 14, 1973
This morning
Jenifer,
holding one flower,
sat between the peas and beets
talking to earthworms.
“Do you like crawling and wiggling?
Do you like to live in dirt?”
And to birds,
“What does it look like up there?
Do you sleep on one foot
like birds in cages?”
Then, dropping her flower,
ran off to play with Danny.
I will begin by saying
I am Sarah,
wearing an ancient mountain
for a body,
sometimes the moon,
On loose days,
I confuse my grasses with my hair,
mix my birds in sun and deep.
Don’t worry Father,
I’m not crazy, just
flexible.
After all
there is that
thread
or quiet pool
where the always of me lives
eating the old dead dances,
singing them new again.
Feb. 4, 1972
I went to see Anne today.
We drank coffee in her
cluttered kitchen,
Molly bellowing out back.
Molly is a cow.
Sometimes
we climb the hill pasture,
lean against the fence.
Molly always puts her chin
on the rail between us,
three women,
we understand each other.
In the kitchen I told Anne about
the wood smell of my guitar,
playing,
careful scales
while the baby’s asleep
or songs with
single notes
falling over each other,
while Jennifer chases the cat
around the house.
Then I remembered
such uneasy,
seeing David heavy in his chair
at dinner,
too tired.
I feel guilty for having so much fun.
Anne said she feels that way too sometimes,
and we put our cups in the sink.
In the living room
Anne and Spencer have a bay window
with a double bed and
piles of pillows,
and afternoon’s
sun.
We curl up there,
Anne and I,
listen to music,
talk about our men or
the children.
Today we brushed each other’s hair,
sitting cross legged,
then stretched out face to face
and read poems.
When she touched my breast
with one finger
from root to tip,
It was as if
she were seeing something
for the first time,
And I
was seeing it too,
this swell of
handful wonder.
I walked home through winter trees
and late sun.
At dinner
David talked about his day,
how Herman hid in the classroom
eating a whole bag of marshmallow
during recess.
I wanted to tell him
about what happened with Anne,
the way I’d tell about
seeing drops of dew frozen
on a spider’s web,
or the way I’d share
the first summer plum.
Instead I chewed my green beans,
realizing,
I don’t really like green beans.
When we go to bed,
I will lie close to his man’s body
and keep my secret
until I am sure
he will not hurt himself with it.
Feb. 25, 1972
Winter
dropped on me today
with ghost black wind
so hard, I wanted to
get under the covers
for ever.
Actually
it’s dank and foggy,
no wind at all,
just my own
melodrama.
God you didn’t make things
like I want them to be!
Cats kills birds, placing them
delicately
on my front porch,
or worse yet,
bring them into the kitchen.
Children fight,
Grownups fight!
People die of cancer,
people die.
That’s the worst insult of all,
dying,
helpless as an infant,
like my Grandmother
day after day
calling for her mamma.
April 5, 1973
At Rachel’s house
there is a silver-haired man
with pulls me eyes,
intimate without out touching.
imagine our naked bodies
ruffling each other.
would I lose the wonder of you,
after,
on damp sheets?
Would you light a cigarette,
and I,
getting a headache, furtive,
would I trembled,
having risked my man’s trust
for this?
June 14, 1973
This morning
Jenifer,
holding one flower,
sat between the peas and beets
talking to earthworms.
“Do you like crawling and wiggling?
Do you like to live in dirt?”
And to birds,
“What does it look like up there?
Do you sleep on one foot
like birds in cages?”
Then, dropping her flower,
ran off to play with Danny.