the poetrysheet
whimsy, subversion, bowling
Number 503, June 2, 2004
Iakiv Holovats'kyi
(1814-1888)
“Oh,
a storm is threat’ning
My very life today
If
I don’t get some shelter
I’m
gonna fade away”
—Mick
Jagger and Keith Richards, “Gimme Shelter”
Val Blackhawk
The park was remote from town and quiet but for an
occasional car on the bridge, which rose above a grove of cottonwoods and
sycamores. In the twilight before dawn, I spread my sleeping bag on the sandy
ground by a rough concrete boat ramp under a sycamore. The wind shook the
cottonwood leaves. I imagined sunset throwing shadows across the open meadow
and into the grove. I could hear horseshoes ringing. Families laughed and
chattered, and once in a while someone raised his voice to make a point. The
land beneath the trees and the muddy banks was swathed in treasure the river
uncovered in unknown and innumerable floods.
The morning had grown bright. Only a constant riffle
on the bank of the river and the engine of an irrigation pump broke the silence.
A couple of cars were parked on the road to the gate. I watched them out of the
corner of my eye as I gathered up my things and made ready to take off. An
Indian woman walked over.
“I’m Val,” she said as she flipped back her long, shiny
black hair and held out a soft, brown hand. It felt good to take it. “Val
Blackhawk. Whatcha doin’? Do you mind if I ask?”
Val wore a jean jacket. Her shirt sagged, and she
seemed to be plumping out of her jeans, but not unattractively so. She smelled
not unpleasantly of beer and perfume. Her eyes were clear. The cottonwoods
formed an avenue behind her. An Indian man sat behind the wheel of a truck. He
nodded and smiled. He lifted his index finger from the steering wheel.
“I’m taking this canoe to Kansas City,” I said.
“I seen a couple of Australians on the river once,”
she said, looking over my shoulder at the dense thicket of willow and
cottonwoods at the bank. “It’s pretty swift here. Once my husband went swimmin’
off the boat ramp, and we hatta pick him up from the other side, downstream
aways. But my husband isn’t such a good swimmer. My daughter swims here all the
time. I got six kids. We’re Fort Peck Sioux and live on the reservation near
here.”
“It’s a nice place?”
“Well, it’s very nice. Thanks for askin’. You might
not think it’s nice.” She slid her hands into her jeans pockets and twisted
back and forth at the waist.
“I see nice things everywhere.”
“Maybe you’d like it then.”
“I’m sure I would, especially if everyone was as
friendly as you.”
“Well, not everybody. Most people.”
“This park, it’s a nice place. What about it?”
“Well, no offense or nothin’,” she turned and took in
the park, a beautiful place opening up in the morning light under the canopy of
cottonwoods and sycamores. A cool breeze filtered down from the dark banks of
the river. “But the Indians sold it to whitemen, and the whitemen closed it.”
“No offense taken. Why did they close it?”
“It was a nice place, a good place for picnics and parties,
ya’ know. But once the Indians sold it, whitemen ruined it. First, they closed
it at night so we couldn’t come here. Then they closed it altha way. But we
still come here, ya’ know. Indians, I mean.”
Judging from the worn condition of the road, plenty
of people came here. I wanted to know why the Indians sold the land, it was
such a beautiful place. But thought better of it.
Val walked back to the truck, climbed in with her
husband. They smiled at me and drank beer while I gathered my things together.
I looked back over my shoulder as I launched the canoe and saw them waving
goodbye.
Simple place
By Gail Trudeau
Walking along the narrow flower bed
I converse with each cluster of recently
sprouted zinnias and 4 o'clocks
like they are my children.
Stooped to touch the tender cells of life,
I am reminded of the smoothness
of my daughter's cheek as I stroked her face
while nursing her some 20 years ago.
In the garden, time neither comes
nor goes; and though these delicate clusters
will mature into beauteous flowers,
their spent petals will be carried off
by the wind, leaving seeds to bed down
for winter's sleep in earth's womb.
Fingernails black with moistened soil and
framed with stains of clover and crabgrass,
I am summoned by the telephone and
the expectation of daughter's call.
Led away from this ever-present simple place
where butterflies do not hurry away,
daughter's voice is jubilant and
warm as the sun setting on my back.
And she, fruit of my harvest, freed
from clover and crabgrass
is exuberant, thriving; the reflection
of me before flower gardens grew
outside my back door.
When I place the receiver back into its cradle,
I listen for a moment in stillness.
'Come to me,' my flowers whisper.
'We will show you the way
where there is no end
from life
to life.'
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