POEM: NOMADS(1995)

NOMADS

In my grandmother’s

Twilight hours

Dreamt of

Dark dusty night:

A long journey

I walked alone.

I arrived

Cottage of my own sunset;

No light from the window,

No arms at the door.

Let myself in

Stirred ashes

Stoked fires

Made dinner.

Wept in silence

At the solitary hearth;

Shadow play

On my wrinkled hands

Reminded me

My body in youth:

Straight bones

Clean blood;

No stretch marks

No sag

Smooth skin.

Skyward curve

Of breasts and buttocks,

Before men

Before fear

Before (look away, say quickly in one breath)

Drugs, rape, pregnancies, pain.

Before a broken heart.

I had this dream

Before Nonny died.

Then a dawn came

My grandmother

Did not return from

Night.

I came back

From this Carnival

To this

Lush land (where silent snakes curve

deadly like

rivers

and my reflection lies

coiled in eyes

I’d rather forget;

I remembered why

I left

the moment I returned).

Here

I am a ghost;

I can remember

Before I was born.

Old Grandmothers,

I remember,

Walked Highlands at dawn,

Beaches at dusk.

I remember

A new country

A missionary’s life;

I remember

Boston streets

A wealthy Englishman’s wife;

I remember

White frame house

A poet and painter.

I must not forget

A candy maker

Whose hands

Lie folded

In my lap.

I remember

First Grandmother

Drank scotch,

Danced a jig,

Cursed First Grandfather.

I remember

What First Grandmother

Told her daughters;

I remember

First Grandfather

Never returned for long.

First Grandmother

Never told

Of lonely twilight

Lengthening

Into night,

And no fire kindled

At her last hearth.

My own grandmother

Whispered it sometimes

When she could find me;

And how rare that?

Me, whole,

Away from Circus;

I have wandered so far.

Her gnarled hands

Would grip mine

Like tree roots

Seeking earth;

“Time to stop these

Generations of roaming,”

She’d say;

“I have my

Hopes on you.”

Then she’d

Teach her crafts:

Candy-making and story-telling;

Different from those

Her grandmother taught her;

But, “Any craft will do,”

She’d warn me;

“Something to exchange for

Welcome at another hearth,

Even a Tinker’s campfire.”

I’d look away

Wondering

If she knew

How many

Gypsy boys

My body nourished

Before I trusted

My own crafts.

I know why

Never my children

Cradled my arms;

I know why

Never I lay

Wrapped warm

In Highland Shepherd’s plaid:

Nomads, we

Whose hearts

Became brittle

When men failed

Firelight vigil;

Unprotected,

We learned

To keep warm

Alone.

Nomads, we

Who chase hearth fires

Of others;

Refuse to use

Broken bits

Of our own

Unforgiving souls

To kindle a spark,

Bring Grandfather back.

I drink old scotch,

And dance a jig;

I know how

To keep warm;

Still, I cry out

For Grandfather’s son

To return

Without shame.

I sleep with a new dream:

A twilight croft,

Two grandparents

Well wrapped

Lie warm.

Dusk deepens

Fires fade

Soon enough

Without a curse.

Final draft 20 December 1995

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