USA

lucyday@scarlettanager.com

GREAT-GRANDMOTHER
For Mariam Gertrude Peckham, 1846-1914

In autumn she picked apples, packed the good ones in barrels,
and husked corn on the back porch, storing
some for winter fodder, grinding the rest for johnnycake.

She piled yellow pumpkins in the cellar
while the children gathered walnuts, butternuts
and chestnuts--mostly to sell, but plenty to eat.

Sweet cider, which filled her china pitcher
through the fall, was kept
for vinegar when it started to work.

On snowy nights Mariam sat at her desk
and wrote that women should wear pants in public,
attend the universities, and vote.

It was often after midnight when she went upstairs
to the room where Henry was sleeping
under a star-patterned quilt.

He'd wake when she crawled in.
Splinters of moonlight pierced the shutters
clattering in wind.

In March, snow melting, Henry tapped
the maple trees and took the sap inside
for Mariam to strain and boil down.

She sold her articles to magazines,
sewed for neighbors, and ran a millinery shop,
all the while dreaming of a world where women

could enter any profession.
She told Henry, and he nodded as she tacked
a red silk rose to a hat.

WOMAN IN BLUE JEANS AND WOOL SOCKS

She dusts the copper sugar bowl
and fills the garlic pot
before starting supper. Each
teaspoon leveled, she folds
flour and white batter
into butter, eggs, vanilla
and sugar, creamed.

Coffee cake safe in the oven,
chicken simmering in olive oil
and wine, she takes a razor blade
and scrapes paint from doors,
window frames and walls,
exposing the dark wood beneath.

In every cottage there is a woman
dusting floral china,
arranging a table with bowls
of strawberries and cream.

In every heart there is a question
of fruit and honey, razor blades
and wood like dark water,
the swirling grain.

Paint chips fly in the woman's face
and catch beneath her nails.
Trees glisten in the first fall rain;
creeks that were shallow in summer
churn and rise.

Coffee cake burns in the oven.
Chicken boils over in olive oil and wine.
Something rises inside the woman,
sharp, a knife, a cry.

POEM FOR MY DAUGHTERS

First, your eyelids flutter, then suction breaks.
Your brow wrinkles. A crescent of milk
ripples from your mouth, and a smile
curls at my breast. I plan to watch you grow,
not like a flower, to bloom and fade,
but like a tree--an evergreen--a tamarind
with hard wood and tart fruit. I see
your sturdy branches stretching,
yellow blossoms shimmering--a million moons.

Your sister doesn't hear the morning sounds:
your candid wails, the typewriter
clacking like a train. She lies coiled
and silent as a seashell. Her skin
is moonstone-smooth, lucent, in the first light
filtering through her curtains.
I have watched her grow. She climbs
like a vine, assured, a liana
entwining a jungle tree. Limbs and vine
ascend together, the core of the rain forest.

Remember, daughters,
you weave your destinies with leaves and light;
you dream in textures of wind.
I see you growing, close to earth and sky,
Liana and Tamarind,
agile, rugged, becoming yourselves.

IN PARADISE WITH MY DAUGHTER

We practiced the hula on the Wailua River
on our way to the Fern Grotto.
Putting one hand on top of the other
and circling our thumbs,
we made a pair of fish that swam in air.

And we listened to the legend
of the pregnant peasant girl
who wandered onto land of the royal family.
This was her fortune: her son
was raised as a prince.

The narrow path to the grotto was lined
with ti plants. Stalks
of red ginger and torch ginger
burst into fiery plumes.
We finally reached the lava tube--

lush, overhung with sword ferns--
site of ceremonies long before
the first pale people marveled
at the curling pods and bright red seeds
of the wili-wili tree.

The Waialeale singers serenaded us
with the Hawaiian Wedding Song,
then said, "I now pronounce you
man and wife. You may kiss the bride."
Lovers melded together on cue.

We looked into each other's eyes,
trying not to laugh.
A red and black bird--probably
an apapane--whistled sweetly overhead.
I leaned forward; our lips met.

ROLE REVERSAL

When I get home from work,
Gene is in the kitchen, making pesto.
He chops garlic and pine nuts, grinds basil,
grates parmesan, and blends
it all with olive oil for our pasta.

Simmering scallops with bay leaves,
he scolds me: "Would you please
hurry up and open the wine?"
I pour myself a glass of chardonnay
and give him some for cooking.

I know he goes from store to store,
looking for the best ingredients.
For special occasions, I take him out.
A therapist said our complaints
are common, roles reversed. He wants

more help with the dishes. I balk
because the bills are all addressed to me.
Things could be worse. What if
he were a lousy cook? I say, "The earth
is bountiful, my prince of tarragon. Let's feast."

These five poems are from WILD ONE (Scarlet Tanager Books,
2000).

© All Copyright, Lucille Lang Day.
All Rights Reserved. Printed By Permission.