Absolute Trust in the Goodness of the Earth (6 page)
When Fidel Comes to Visit Me
When Fidel Comes to Visit Me
Usually
When Fidel comes
To visit me
He helps with all the household
Chores. I am surprised and not surprised
To see him so at home
In my kitchen
Sweeping or mopping
The floor
Doing laundry and worrying
Out offensive smells
Lurking
In my
refrigerador
.
Sometimes he looks more like Ortega
Than like himself:
How do you make yourself
So short I ask
And brown
As well?
He shrugs. So tall responding
To this question
The tops of his shoulders
Are out of sight.
In my dreams I am an average size
And so I was last night.
Once again Fidel appeared
This time gray & much
Fatigued.
I put him and his aide
Who looked as tired as he
To bed at once. And I began
To sweep my house, mop my kitchen
Floor, clear my refrigerator
And pantry too
Of all unpleasantness.
While I was doing this
They slept.
And then
Just as I stood aside
Admiring my handiwork
 (I had waxed and polished all the
Furniture & cooked paella as well!)
The two of them appeared:
The aide relaxed, and seeming
Somewhat
Fatter.
Fidel refreshed, looking about
For the gifts he'd
Brought as he'd staggered
Upon my porch
A night and a day
Ago;
Grinning
Showing all his teeth
Which seemed to be
All there
& wanting to dance.
In dreams it is said missing teeth signify loss of dignity
or “face.” It is said Fidel cannot dance.
No Better Life
There is no better life
Than this
To let the good-looking
Gardener
Go home
Early
To his wife
& New baby.
To lie
On the blue couch
Recuperating
From a
Just
Battle.
To be full
Of soup
Cooked
By a friend.
Someone Should Have Taught You This
(Tenacatita Beach, Mexico)
When the vendor
Looks
Exhausted
& her skin
Is bad
When her body staggers
Stunted
By years of
Dragging
Somebody else's
Tawdry wares
Across
The sand
When her children
& she herself
Appear more
Shrunken
Each time
You see
Them
And the conquistador's
Mother Hubbard
Sets her apart
From all
Educational
Medical
Or
Even
Nutritional
Pursuits
When her very
Eyeballs
Shriek
Of injustice
& their
Whites
Are flushed
With blood
When you know
She has
Been on
Her feet
500 years
You should also know
Though greedy
To buy worthless
Trinkets
At half price
That
Today is
No time
To bargain.
Dream of Frida Kahlo
It was big.
It was a sea
Of shit.
Neither she
Nor I
Had any notion
What to do
With
It.
Our mothers came.
One resourceful
The other
Stout
& using
Just
Their thoughts
Soon they
Had contained
The odious
Ocean
In a pot
That
Was not only
Clean
But shining!
Standing over it
Slapping palms
They smiled
At us
Beloved daughters
Left
Suddenly
With much less
Work
To do.
Then
Like Cheshire
Cats
They disappeared
Their smiles
Like light
The crescent moon
Upon
Our foreheads.
Frida died
That night.
We laid her out
Well dressed
Of course
Beneath the star-
Bespeckled
Sky.
There was a cloud
For beauty
But even so
She was not under
It.
At dawn
All the roosters
In the world
Began to crow
& I
My arms widestretched
Raised
Her long dark
Braid
To greet
The sun.
To her funeral
Not only traveled
Diego
& many
Masters who
Had lived
Before
But also:
A long line
Of stately
Swaying
Elephants
Their images
Left behind
Them
Engraved in stone
Came slowly
Down
Gravely
Down
Emphatically
Down
To pay their respects
From the hills.
My Mother Was So Wonderful
My mother
Was so wonderful
I wanted
To marry
Her.
My father
Hapless
Never
Seemed
To notice
Her unmistakable
Glory
& let thirty
Years
Go by
Without
Be-ringing her.
How could
Such a fox
As she
Have fallen
In
With
Such
A
Clown?
Cheerfully
She wore
My ring
Though it turned green
Upon
Her finger.
I admired it
Often. The weak light
Of rhinestone
The cheap
Gleam
Of almost
Gold.
Proud
That
Such a Being
Magnificent
Beyond
My boldest
Imaginings
Consented
With a smile
To
Belong
To
Me.
Aging
Aging
Your job:
Every morning
To look
Into
The mirror
To note
In spite
Of everything
Life is humming
Along.
To say
In wonder
Fit
Anticipation:
There
it
is!
Aging.
Life.
What has it done?
What's it doing now?
What is it going
To do?
Some Things to Enjoy About Aging
The dignity
of
Silver:
New light
Around my
Head.
Forgetfulness:
So much less
To recall!
Talking to myself:
Amusing company
For me &
My dog.
Lying Quietly
Lying quietly
bones aching
I feel
I must
be
falling
through
them.
That standing
upright
was
an idea
an interlude
an illusion:
that we are
as always
on our way
to dust.
Wrinkles
Wrinkles
Invited by Life
Have
Entered
This house.
Someone
New
Is living
In my
Face.
Life Is Never Over
Life is never
Over
After this one
Begins
The journey
Of
Vegetation
Of being roses
Of being trees.
Only after much
Unhappiness
& many bad decisions
 (So long a time
We need
Hardly
Even think
Of it)
Begins
The life
Of dumb metal:
Of being
Glancing
Axes
Whining saws
Rust-weary
Shears.
Bring Me the Heart of MarÃa Sabina
If They Come to Shoot You
If they come to shoot you
and because you lived in
Mississippi
where so many
died
you know
they might:
Ask them first
to let you find
your hidden
picture
of
Che Guevara.
Place it just
at eye level
& if you cannot
find it
even after
they've
ransacked
your house
imagine
those eyes
bright &
steady
the calm of them
on that
last morning
in a poor
chilly
village
in Bolivia
His death offered
as a birthday
present
to a young man
so young & ignorant
that he took careful, prideful aim.
Meanwhile, El Che,
the schoolteacher
who gave him
his last supper
reports,
stood at ease
on his wounded leg
though he
had bled
steadily
through the long night.
His imperturbable idea
was to come back
after his escape
& build her
a proper school. (Perhaps it was this audacity
that caused them, later, to cut off his hands.)
With what compassion
he must
have gazed
at his young
murderer.
An assassin
kept
brutish &
illiterate
for just such
a purpose
as this.
Someone so
mulelike
we can almost hear
the whining
of incomprehension
thirty years
after
that fateful morning
as all
the
campesinos
in his neighborhood
don't even
jeer at him
anymore
but simply
turn
their sun-withered
cheeks
away.
I too
pray
for you
young, poor, ignorant
pathetic
assassin.
You have been sent by someone
who also
does not
understand.
& that is what
we can
remember
to do
pray
for them
when they come
for us.
You Too Can Look, Smell, Dress, Act This Way
Whenever I notice
advertising
How they can
tuck away your
nipples
suck off
your hips
& make you
smell
like nobody
who's ever
lived
I like to think
of Jane Goodall.
Plain Jane
Goodall.
I like
to imagine her
hunkered down
motionless
quiet
observant
of wild chimpanzees
in
the bush.
Her gray hair
tugged
off
her honest
face
âwith a rubber
band
I'd betâ
While she studies
the body proud
cousins
looking for clues
about why
we're so
dissatisfied.
Sometimes
a person's name
just
suits
them.
Jane. Nothing
you can do
with Jane
except say it.
Goodall.
Advertising never
seems to reach
Jane. Her hips always appear
to be just
where they always
were. Her breasts
never
strain to declare
themselves.
Each time
she emerges blinking
out of
the mists
she's wearing
the exact
same
white blouse & indifferent
blue skirt.
She never seems
to have heard
of a makeup
that wasn't
character.
If I could
sniff
Jane Goodall
as her friends
the chimpanzees
do
I know
she would smell
just like
her name.
Like no advertiser's
perfume
ever touched
her
No surgeon's
shears
ever trimmed
such ample
integrity.
She would smell
like earth
air, water
ancient forest
like no man
was ever
there.
The Breath of the Feminine
Smoking
In boardrooms
Eating
Carrion
At thirty thousand
Feet
Still
Remember
Before foulness
Becomes
Inseparable
From air:
The breath
Of the Feminine
Is sweet.
Relying on neither ...
Relying on neither man nor religion, accepting neither chador nor burka nor any form of premature shroud, whether physical or spiritual, and completely open to her own intense intimacy with the divine, MarÃa Sabina speaks to all people, all seekers, all healers, all lovers of earth, of this time.
Bring Me the Heart of MarÃa Sabina
Life
You who have brought
Me
So many deep rivers
To cross
And as many sturdy
Boats
You who now bring me
To the curve
In the long road
That permits a view
Of the white roses
That bloom
Profusely
Beside
Death's door
Bring me the power
Of the Virgen de Guadalupe
The fearlessness
Of Martin
The resignation
Of Jesus
The wisdom of
Sofia
The equanimity of
Gandhi
The vastness
Of Yemaya
The insouciance
Of Kwan Yin
The joie de vivre
Of Buddha
The devotion &
In the end
Serenity
Of Che
Bring me the heart
Of MarÃa Sabina.
Bring me the heart
Of MarÃa Sabina
Matron saint
Of Mexico
Defender of tobacco
Of herb
Priestess of mushrooms.
It was a heart
Of humbleness
A heart of belief
A heart that rejoiced
In the recovered
Health
& happiness
Of
Every sufferer.
A heart that looked
To the earth
For help
In
Healing us
Found it.
Bring me the heart
Of MarÃa Sabina.
The first time
She ate
“The children”
As she called
The mushrooms
That would
Later heal
The multitudes
She was a child
Herself
& starving. They glowed white
In the grass
Like pieces
Of bread.
In the vision
She was given
She saw her dead
Father & what is more
Felt his protection
& his love.
A poor Indian
As she
His daughter
Was
The misery of life
Under conquest
Dispossession
Poverty
Humiliation
Had taken
His breath away.
Seeing him
Whole
Vibrant
Alive
In her vision
Hearing him
Speak
To her
MarÃa Sabina
Was healed of the misery
Of grieving his death
Of missing him. Her hunger
Likewise
Disappeared.
From that
Time on
She accepted
Earth's
Offering of
All healing
“Children,” whether mushroom
Tobacco, or herb
As medicine
& with them
Treated
Healed
Cured
All who
Came
To her.
Accepting
That she could not
Bear to
Become rich
On what Earth
Gave for free
No one
Suffering
Was ever
Turned away.
Life paid her with more life.
O Life
Bring us the heart
Of MarÃa Sabina
Help us to trust
In you
Help us to
Honor
& enjoy
Your surprises
Use them
To help ourselves
& others
As she did.
To her small house
In the misty mountains
Of Mexico
Came
The high
& the low
Though none
Were high
Or low
To her
& she helped
Them all.
Bring me the heart
Of MarÃa Sabina.
An old woman
Still scrawny from
Her hungry youth
Her hair gray
Her eyes soft
Still on the path
Of healing
& Unconditional
Love
Until
She died.
And when she did
Leave them,
After cherishing
Them
Beyond their
Understanding
& having survived
All attacks
On her
Morals
Her state of
Mind
Her patience
And willingness to
Sit with their
Sickness
Never flagging
Mexicans everywhere
Lit their candles
& wept.
This is the heart
That belongs
In us
We
Also
“The children”
Indigenous
Like
The mushroom
The tobacco &
The herb
Indigenous
To this
Continent
This hemisphere
We wish to take
Only
What the earth
Offers
& wants
Freely
To give.
As it delights
Through every
Magic “child”
In reconnecting
Us to Itself.
Bring me the heart
Of MarÃa Sabina.
A heart inexplicable
In its generosity
Its lovingkindness
& its grace.
It is the heart
That is ours if we
Dare to claim it.
Americans of all
The Americas
Both Mother
& Father
Grandmother
& Grandfather
Guiding Spirit
Of this
Place.
