Bridges and Crossroads

WPA bridge over the Neosho I
Stood on it in full flood with my
Dad the water just
Kissing the underside of the boards the
River moans shivering up my legs it stood until a
Flood licked out the
Footings they
Replaced it but when I dream the Neosho the old bridge is there

They took the zinc out until they hit the
Daylight of 3rd street you could
See the crack in the pavement
Looked like another pothole and there was
Sunlight in the mine
Sunlight just there with the
Dull ache of lead and the grim
Scowl of jack

Those cottonmouths know some songs too they
Know some fish songs and once crossing Tar Creek
Bridge a grandma snake got hit by a
Pickup and in her last breaths we
Drove up on her there like a burning
Library her songs falling away in curls
Taken by updrafts like smoke prayers near the water she
Looked me in the heart and whispered just the one secret

The Overseers of Complexity

1.
            I have an innate fascination for gadgetry
            Old constructions of brass and glass and numbers
            Designed to measure one thing or another.
            Enjoy compasses and sextants
            Things with gears
            Or wires that spin
            Something meant to determine location.
            The ritual adjustment of the divining tool appeals.
            If I can just get the alignment
            When the proper stars are up
            And present the correct offerings to the overseers of complexity
            Perhaps I will know where I am.

            I like small brown rocks for the same reasons.

2.
           Fits of homesickness come and go,
           Obeying no known rules of logic.
           I may be getting off of a plane from Oklahoma
           And already be missing the heavy, wet air
           Smell of terrapin
           Mine tailings
           The flood plain of the Neosho river.

3.

            Stirring the Creek water
            “A-m (a)”
            She said.

            Later I asked her,
            “Is it still
            Water
            When it comes out of the tap?”

4.

            While planting the garden
            I discover
            Four mason jars containing
            Words on paper.
            Pages torn from a
            Ledger book,
            Covered in
            Tiny writing
            Three seem to be poems
            One just says,
            “Beans”.

Ta-Lu-Tsi

Someone needs to translate for the roots.
Bring stories
From last year’s burned
Grass.
Negotiate between
This bark
That stick.

At this time of year
The ground
Is warmer than the wind.
Stay low in a
Fold
Of faulted earth.

They may talk about this
Art
As a patience
That no one else can
Understand.
For myself it is
A panicked
Desire to see
Becoming in my
Hands.

You want your ash straight
So the best tree
Will be tight in a group of other trees.
They have to fight each other for light
So they grow straight up.
Taking the one
Will help the others grow.

Often I don’t even
Look
At the whole basket
While I weave.
The pattern is just there
Unfolding for me.
I try to hold
The purpose
The identity of the
Piece
In my heart.

The best day to strip
Hickory
Will be the hottest one of the year,
Sometime in mid-August
In Oklahoma.
You have to sing
Leave a gift for the tree
Then mark the area
You want to take
With your knife
Before pulling it off.
Never strip
A ring around the whole thing
Or you’ll kill it.
If you picked the right day
And the tree likes your song
The bark will come off in one piece.

Sometimes my urgency to
Weave
Is so intense
That I hardly breathe
Until
The last
Crossing
Is made
And the
Basket
Is
Complete.

Dishtowels

Embroidered with transgressions for each day of the week
Clipped words
Clipped again to letters
What ransom note?
What poem?
What do you know of a stolen education?
Marking favorite passages with hour hands
Palmed from the ubiquitous pocket watch
Learn to speak self
Forgive your own joyfulness
Tweezing away the scales
When did that start?
Wake into the knowledge of this translation
Woman is an unfamiliar
You were part of that other change
Learn words of self
Transform and practice the stance that keeps you
Eyes at a level that allows for seeing
Mine were parents who wanted me to know things they didn't
Toes dug down and rooting
Mine were parents
I’m here at the breakfast table
Deep in the inherited facts
Picking one more flashing scale from my flesh
Save them with lint balls and laughter in a vial made of sea water
Who was grandma really?