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' A “A“ r—::' '32» r} xiiggém, Knight 1,1, 41!: c THESIS Ml”I!!!(MM/IIMIIMMI/Wily! j LEBRfiRY 5’; Mk‘higm films ‘ This is to certify that the thesis entitled Undiluted Blood presented by Bonnie Williamson Davis has been accepted towards fulfillment of the requirements for MA. degree in Engli Sh W Diane Wakoski Major professor Date 29 Agril 1981 0—7639 ’ovsnoua FINES} 25¢ per day per item RETURNING LIBRARY MATERIALS \ Place in book return tom charge from circulation records © Copyright by BONNIE WILLIAMSON DAVIS 1981 UNDILUTED BLOOD by Bonnie Williamson Davis A THESIS Submitted to Michigan State University in partial fulfillment of the requirements for the degree of MASTER OF ENGLISH Department of English 1981 7’ ‘7 ,/”/ if ‘1'}? ABSTRACT UNDILUTED BLOOD by Bonnie Williamson Davis Undiluted Blood is a collection of poems dealing mainly with people and experiences that have contributed to my physical and spiritual being. It is a probing of my inner feelings, accom- plished, not by introspection, but by looking outward and back- ward, away from myself. Many of the poems show an indulgence in my fascination for ancestors and relatives, some of whom I have never known or met. By responding to them and their situations I found myself uncover- ing latent feelings and attitudes, stored inside me for years, passed down through generations. The subjects about which I have written are both trivial and profound but in some way have become/always were a part of me. They are in my blood permanently, waiting to be passed on again. TABLE OF CONTENTS Yearnings Of A Would-Be Grasshopper The Secret Of The Letter Feeling, Once Again, The Guilt Of My Life-Style I Am Not Always A Pacifist Fran For Uncle Bit (And The Wild Rabbit Behind Our House) My Father Never Fought In The War Traveling Through Latin America The Big Blue Pig With Purple Teats Community Hospital, Room 309, Bed 2 A Misplaced Reel Our Marriage Will Last As Long As This File Cabinet Old Mama Lauer Tracking Down A Missing Suction Pump At Community Hospital A Permanent Image Don't Count Me In With The Real Skiers To The Three Sehoritas I Always Meant To Call Blood Relations 10 13 20 22 26 32 34 36 41 45 47 51 55 59 64 YEARNINGS OF A WOULD-BE GRASSHOPPER In a world of grasshoppers and ants I was destined to become the latter always preparing for some season in the future storing up cracker crumbs while the foolish grasshoppers danced to the fiddle My parents, living in a one-room attic its roof so steep they had to lean sideways saved all week to buy plastic curtains for their only window my father cleaned toilets sold shoes to rich women studied at night my mother a typist Together they saved enough to buy the shabby house below but couldn't afford to move down I picture them in August inches beneath black-tarred shingles bending like wilted daisies toward wisps of incoming air storing up crumbs while the grasshoppers danced to the fiddle Now they possess, among other things a penthouse overlooking the ocean and a home in the mountains these to be enjoyed after retirement My invalid mother, hearing the strains of the fiddle sensing the irony in storing crumbs for the winter bought a yacht for my father who always wanted to sail but had only read books about sailing one of her many recent gestures to make the sweat worth something But the boat lists at its moorings once a month they pay a diver to scrape off the barnacles Their lives do not sadden me anymore than my own we share the same instincts a common source of energy fuels our blood and although I am fond of sunsets I would rearrange my Tupperware shelf if that were the one thing left on the list rather than watch the sky droop into orange folds it is the mediocrity of hard work which thrills me my accomplishments are both stunning and trivial like the ant who carries a bread crust twice his size already I suspect there will never be a winter and sometimes I catch myself secretly watching the grasshoppers wishing for a suspended moment that I might dance to the fiddle THE SECRET OF THE LETTER You, alone on the seacoast waiting out the pollen-heavy months of August and September wrote a letter home to your husband and children wanting to tell them of loneliness and desolation but writing instead of the view from your cottage afraid, because the pungent sea air, swept across miles of pollen—free waves had not relieved the swollen pressure in your head. But this was not a thing to tell three children sadly waiting for the frost to bring their mother home again so you, the gentle woman who always held your feelings in, wrote a letter home to your husband and children described a jaunty sandpiper that amused you on the shore-- asked them about folks back home-— never spilling out the fearful thoughts inside you You did not realize just by looking at your letter they would guess the awful truth that you, yourself, did not yet understand your once delicate script now rose and fell across the page like jagged mountain peaks. This was not the hand of their mother. What you had thought to keep secret—- the massive ache behind your eyes a suffocating depression-- had slipped out on its own by December you were gone I never knew you, born too late to be your grandchild yet I bear your name and know that I take after you I think of you spending your brief life beneath that mask never wanting to burden others with your thoughts or problems holding in each hurt-— but just by looking at that letter, its lines, sporadic as the last few breaths of someone dying even I, who never knew you understood the swollen pain you tried to hide FEELING, ONCE AGAIN, THE GUILT OF MY LIFE—STYLE I stand hunched over my maidenhair fern delicately parting the matted green foliage searching for brittle stems or yellowish leaves hidden beneath As I pinch them off between thumb and forefinger I am suddenly reminded of a bus ride in El Salvador where I watched a woman stooping over a cracked sidewalk picking lice from her daughter's scalp The girl's thick, snarled hair fell across her face and shoulders as she bent her neck down looking much like the tangled cascade of my fern I imagine now that I am searching for vermin and gently tear at the feathery green mass picturing the mother in her filthy cotton shift the broken concrete her daughter hidden by black hair And I marvel at my own mind which cannot stop punishing me for the life I enjoy for the simple grace and beauty of my maidenhair fern its white wicker table the mint green carpet that cushions my bare feet I AM NOT ALWAYS A PACIFIST Hesitating at the top of a hill The tips of my skis poking through fresh snow I am half-frightened by an onslaught 0f black snowmobiles progressing Single file from the valley below Winding toward me like an army of Huge carpenter ants They come with amazing speed and Perseverance I side—step into the trees and Press my body against thorny branches Wishing that I were giant enough to Lift one ski and crush their shiny Black helmeted heads In one quiet move FRAN Fran, you were so ugly I had to stare for a moment the day you moved in. We had heard you were -a large woman- but I was not ready for two-hundred and seventy-eight pounds of you blotting sunlight from the open doorway. I tried to peel away the dimpled flesh to visualize the attractive woman hidden beneath but it didn't work on you With skin like weathered concrete and less hair than my father you were automatically disqualified from any beauty plan. Yet, even on that first day we found you irresistible I admired you for living with us when you could have lived alone we were three women beautiful by comparison and ten years your junior but we posed no threat-- you had long ago accepted your body. I wanted so much to be like that instead of hating myself for things I couldn't change I remember those three days on the beach sweating under a terry cloth robe ashamed of my varicose veins while you bobbed up and down in your swimsuit trying to catch the Frisbee in a game of keep-away and the time I called off a date because of a tiny blemish festering on my chin I told him I was ill then pretended I really was rather than let you know the disgusting truth I admired you Fran with so much to hate and yet so little hatred but in your room one day I found a snapshot taken by a friend our three smiling faces were there captured in a moment of candid radiance but you had torn yourself out of the picture leaving a jagged empty hole standing next to me. I had been so convinced of your strength so sure that nothing really mattered except the interior Fran. I felt you tearing yourself away from me and wondered if there could be anyone existing beyond the pain 12 FOR UNCLE BIT (AND THE WILD RABBIT BEHIND OUR HOUSE) You lived in a chicken coop near the old homestead while I grew up in town it had a flat low roof just like that refrigerator carton we used to play in except we cut a window in ours and you didn't. but, unlike the roosting chickens whose home you settled in occasionally, you would drift off for a month or two no one ever worried you always came back home when Ma and Pa died the homestead was sold so you headed for the woods behind the coop with a frying pan and a few good books surviving the summer on wild raspberries and catfish but winter comes early in Michigan All the aunts and uncles met together to discuss the predicament of you, their elder brother camped beneath layers of flame-bright leaves in Kellogg Woods they finally bought you a small, gray house embraced by gnarled apple trees still furnished with the faded belongings of the old man who had lived and died there kitchen cupboards loaded, toilet repaired they propped open every window so the October apple—air could eat away the smell of death—— those seven brothers and sisters who loved but did not understand you. we rode our bikes over to see you everyday because you had a boogey cellar and didn't mind us sifting through your junk collection. we admired you so much we hardly realized what was happening to you Spring dressed the bare black arms of the apple trees in white organdy but you did not notice by the coming of another fall the house reeked of stale darkness gradually you had given up the effort of opening windows or even draperies most days you just sat reading in your chair with that engineer's cap shading your eyes. The cupboard stock thinned out thistles crept above my knees and still you sat lifeless in that dusty velvet armchair reading reading reading But one day Aunt Ef spotted you downtown clutching a brown paper sack your white face pinched and scared as a kid lost in a supermarket she drove around the block three times in rush hour traffic before she could stop your hands were rattling the sack wet eyes blinking against an unfamiliar sun like a man stepping out from a dark theater you were trying to find the bus station you had intended to leave without a word to anyone not even to three kids who had worshipped you daily she drove you to the terminal and dropped you off because, somehow, it seemed the right thing to do. You said you might not ever come back. gentle person that you were I am sure you never realized that you left behind a shattered family my father spent a long time reminding me how we had nursed that rabbit after a dog ripped into its hind leg and though we loved the rabbit a lot he made us give it back to the trees behind our house Then he added some people don't belong with other people and it would be cruel to keep them boxed in like the rabbit. but you were our Uncle Bit not a rabbit and I couldn't understand how an unknown city on the Greyhound route could pull you away from us Like the parents of a soldier missing in action we kept your house just as you left it hoping, unreasonably that you would appear tomorrow or the next day but you never did. eventually they bagged up your stuff and sold the place Thanksgiving Day gatherings became a painful reminder that another year had slipped away without any word from you we could have, perhaps accepted a death, which through the years fades into faintly throbbing memories but your absence was a thing that ached and gnawed into us more deeply every year I pictured you, an educated man one who never took an interest in alcohol or women lying on some dingy mission cot; some kind preacher saddened by your loneliness not knowing how we missed you When eleven years later you strolled up our driveway a new vibrance bristling through your sagging clothes we felt you had been raised up from the dead I» You were a changed man but did not want to talk much about the eleven years. We sapped what few details we could from you how you rode the freight trains and lived beneath well travelled bridges feeding off discarded scraps You apologized for such a life even admitting the horror of it so I asked you why you left and stayed away so long—— You had no answer I know now that I will never understand you born with different instincts than myself a man I loved so openly repaid, by eleven years of emptiness and yet, I love you still MY FATHER NEVER FOUGHT IN THE WAR When killing japs was patriotic You decided not to fight choosing instead, at age seventeen to march with a broomstick over your shoulder I often imagine hundreds of duplicate soldiers stepping and turning in unison rifles propped stiffly on proud shoulders and You, with your painted yellow broomstick the only flaw in a perfect pattern ”Yellow-boy,” they called you. You, whose job it was to crawl on your stomach through mud dragging a stretcher without the extra weight of guns and ammunition to slow you down 20 You, whose job it was to stack up young bodies like cordwood in open trucks until the soles of their boots formed a solid wall eight feet high ”Yellow-boy,” they called you. Hoping to shame you into conformity they placed a broomstick in your hands—- already dead-sure that neither you nor they would ever give in 21 TRAVELING THROUGH LATIN AMERICA We stayed at the filthy pension only because of your tiny coffee shop next door its cafe curtains and red-checkered table cloths pulling at our loneliness raking us in like dying seaweed you served tea and delicate pastries No tortillas frijoles pupusas or semilla No marimbas guitars or seductive Latin singers we heard Brahms Violin Concerto in D and our parched memories gratefully soaked up the music after these two years of drought 22 the next evening when you brought our cakes on a tray white apron wrapped around a gaunt waist we expressed gratitude for the background music humbly boasting of our own expertise in the arts between the three of us we counted: two violinists one pianist one sculptor one singer two actors. You mentioned having once played violin then your eyes became murky as though our conversation had dredged up something long- settled in muck “Do you still have the violin?” Peter had asked his own eyes glistening like beads of oil. We had been away so long. 23 At midnight you locked the door and led us through a narrow hallway to your shabby living quarters. Your wife and son had removed their aprons and sat waiting in front of the piano, the first I had ever seen in these parts (except for the baby grand at the Ambassador's place). I fell on the keyboard fingers greedily devouring whole octaves exotic chords then slunk back embarrassed by this savage display of gluttony You lifted your violin from its cracked case and placed it in Peter's hand we guessed the truth from those first tones rich and powerful as a chestnut horse the violin could only belong to a master The three of us shrank when you finally tucked the instrument beneath your chin and played Paganini flawlessly 24 then your son sat down at the piano and accompanied you in work after work By dawn we were good friends. Peter and I had played the marvelous violin Maureen had sung a few arias And you had related the sadness of your life How you fled your own country giving up the concertmaster's seat to wait on tables a white apron for the black tailcoat you once wore You had vowed never to play for anyone again. we spoke our farewells knowing we would travel on before night and I savored one last glance at the old upright, noticing for the first time its ivory keys discolored and broken like the fingernails of campesinos 25 THE BIG BLUE PIG WITH PURPLE TEATS After three years in this country most foreign kids reek with American accents but Waleed sounds like he's eating marshmallows I understand him though. for the past three years I've been trying to teach him English. the first week of school after several close hugs I discovered a progressive case of ringworm under his chin. Later on, he infected the whole pre-school with head lice I was grateful to just be his English teacher forty—five minutes a day but then I didn't realize he would come back year after year unable to speak coherently 26 He began and finished kindergarten wearing a tan, polyester leisure suit and high-heeled two-toned disco shoes (no socks) his first sign of westernization during the cold months (and to a Saudi, most Michigan months are cold) pink flowered long—johns crept out from his grimy cuffs like grayish snails slowly extending from their shells sometimes he wore pajamas with feet in them instead of the long—johns When, after three years, he had no friends his age he fell in love with me wouldn't leave my room until he'd hugged and kissed his sweetheart 27 Repulsion churned inside me until it finally bubbled up like putrid sulfur springs and I turned away my face. Near the end of May I taught my kids about spring painstakingly they copied four sentences from the chalkboard-- Trees have flowers. Baby animals are born. Children fly kites. People plant gardens. then each one received a huge manila drawing sheet sectioned into quarters by my green magic marker ”In square number 1 draw a picture of sentence number 1. Do you understand?“ 28 I'r while everyone drew big round trees like ice cream cones Waleed still struggled with his letters reversing them, Arabic-style I finally gave him a box of crayons and told him to draw his picture By now a rash of baby chicks had broken out on most kids' papers little yellow chicks popping from cracked eggshells-— the same example I had used. But Waleed drew a gawky bird with long legs dangling down, below, a white rabbit in the grass with a red streak on its back the eagle had picked up the baby rabbit then dropped it, he said that was blood on its back Kids were whining about kites and gardens wanting me to draw their pictures but I was still transfixed by the rabbit 29 I encouraged him to draw a blossoming tree which he did without much interest but near it he colored a giant red bird, butterfly wings outspread landing like a parachutist on a nest full of red eggs I held his picture up excited now but everyone was busy copying some stupid kite picture from their reading books Waleed went on to draw not a kite but an enormous blue pig with purple teats—— underneath, a tiny orange baby pig they didn't look too much like pigs but he told me that's what they were he drew himself offering a corncob to the blue pig 3O His classroom teacher came to me that day spelling test in her hand the sheet was blank except for Waleed's name written as a mirror image and the numbers 1 through 6 reversed and strung along the right hand margin ”This is what I have to show after one year with this kid.” I taped his picture on my office wall a continual reminder of my shortsightedness. 31 COMMUNITY HOSPITAL, ROOM 309, BED 2 Your door is closed I push it open gently then snap back startled by another woman in your bed even as I read your name in bold print a resemblance of you filters through the heavy air lying flat and stiff your face the color of raw oysters some invisible force sucking your eye sockets to the back of your skull Just yesterday you sat in this bed modeling a peach colored nightgown it stands out now against your gray skin like the gaudy rouge on an old woman's cheek A young boy in white glides in and out silently leaving a tray of dead food (as though you could eat) I touch your bruised arm maimed by countless blood tests and your eyes crawl out of their dark tunnels ”During the night,” you whisper ”Another clot—-but they don't know yet They've never felt their blood stop.“ lips smeared with dead ashes 32 The odor of cold grease coagulating near the edge of your plate sets my stomach in motion-—it rises steadily like an elevator until it can go no higher then I retch uncontrollably over the antiseptic toilet In the hall, a tin orchestra pours syrupy music through the intercom system two nurses sit behind a glass partition laboriously filling out charts I wonder if you are even on their charts The cheese sauce on your broccoli cools and thickens into clots I float over your bed in disbelief six weeks in this place and they have not yet realized you are my mother that until sometime during the night your face was soft and beautiful You occupy a bed above which, the nameplate is disposable 33 A MISPLACED REEL At age seven I discovered the bodies of two young women their faces extending from underneath a black car parked, along with many others, on a frozen lake. they wore heavy coats and long, woolly scarves and had been hacked repeatedly by an ax which lay nearby on a cushion of red snow night after night the dream reoccurred until the idea of sleep terrified me I would load my bed with toys in an effort to stay awake but the haphazard arrangement of stuffed animals would weave itself into neat rows of cars I would find myself in the strange parking lot stooping to pick up someone's lost red mitten only to discover it was not a mitten at all rather a red bloodstain soaking into the snow 34 eventually, the nightmare faded I resumed my normal seven—year-old existence but the images had become a part of me unnoticed, painless; there to stay-- like the steel plate inserted in my uncle's hip after he fell time and again I have wondered about the nightmare wondered how a small girl whose best friends were dolls could develop such a thing within her head a girl who had never seen read nor heard about chopping up women with an ax Twenty years have passed since The Parking Lot Murders but the blood is still wet and shiny. I drift through life wondering about the dark side of my brain trying yet to decipher that macabre attempt at communication from some murky source and half expecting to spot a red mitten lost near a black car, parked, along with many others on a frozen lake 35 OUR MARRIAGE WILL LAST AS LONG AS THIS FILE CABINET When we got married Paul gave up everything except his used file cabinet he left behind the house he owned with the screened-in back porch and the basement he had finished off he said good—by to his disabled Saab knowing it would never survive the journey of six blocks He walked away without his collection of pots, pans, and pink cafeteria trays without the old hide-a-bed couch and formica kitchen table but the one thing he would not give up was his battered file cabinet bought second-hand for $85. Eighty—five bucks} I said in disbelief You can buy a new one from the Sears Roebuck catalog for $59.95. 36 But he insisted the cabinet was first-class solid as an armored tank and heavier with steel ball-bearing rollers not found nowadays We bumped it up his basement stairs on a rented dolly and rolled it into the U-HAUL its drawers packed solid as cans of Libby Pumpkin containing everything he had ever collected Into my house of antiques, Nippon china, and mint green carpet we dragged this used file cabinet up the staircase knowing we could both be maimed if either one let go we made it around two corners without a scratch but with one miscalculated move the file cabinet fell heavy as an executioner's blade and split the top of my carved walnut desk clean in two it happened so quickly the hand—painted figurines barely flinched 37 We got married anyway. I painted the file cabinet brown and parked it in the corner behind the door As part of our wedding vows I promised to let that be his territory and relinquished all rights thereof a concession of 15 cubic feet-- not out of line under the circumstances-- although I later threw in part of the basement Since then, his presence has steadily infiltrated the eyelet lace and crystal goblets unusual books have sprung up like wild blackberries to choke off my thin volumes of poetry From the basement a new workbench billows sawdust and toxic fumes late at night The emaciated frame of his maroon 10-speed hangs grotesquely from a hook in the garage Unclaimed brown socks accumulate near the dryer like homely girls without dates But certain items which are sacred he has piled on top of the file cabinet where they enjoy diplomatic immunity from vacuum cleaners and Windex There, huddled together, are the things he can never give up/I can never accept 38 A large plastic model of the Invisible (pregnant) Woman complete with snap-out belly and removable fetus A green ceramic frog ashtray although we abhor smoking His unwieldy sculpture crafted of coat hangers and wood in 7th grade A rubber statue of Jiminy Cricket with all the paint chewed off A Cracker Jacks box chained to a brown jug the significance of which I have never understood These treasures which would never be tolerated by my onyx chessboard or pewter candlesticks have survived on a technicality because we both feel the weight of wedding vows It is inconceivable that Paul would ever surrender his one strong-hold so I have given up and although I feign utter disgust the truth of the matter is that I have grown attached to this blight on the landscape It is the one thing in my life which I can never control or perfect and despite its dents and layers of dust it will never wear out or give in 39 the basement 4O OLD MAMA LAUER You were the matriarch of our high school not just the choir director students and teachers alike fled at the warning squeak of your rubber soled tie shoes When you parked that massive load of flesh behind the director's stand eighty-seven slouching spines snapped as though you had yanked a common chord running through their vertebrae I would sit trembling at the piano positioning my frozen fingers with one eye watching the tilt of your wrist with the other terrified at the prospect of missing a downbeat I knew your throaty voice which rode through school on the backs of arpeggios could scorch a person black with the ease of a blowtorch once you humiliated me so deeply I dripped hot tears on the keyboard because that day my fingers like giddy horses would not be briddled by your turning wrist 41 Something though kept me coming back like almost everyone there I was helplessly drawn by your power and I hated you for it But when you stood before us arms outstretched, white head flung back enormous bosom heaving against the jersey dresses you wore draining music from our veins that no one guessed was there I could only envy so magnificent a source until that day we filed in as usual to take our places and you were gone we finally noticed you sitting in darkness behind the glass wall of your office From my piano bench I watched you but you did not move, did not even realize more than eighty pairs of eyes were on you I slipped in your door with the caution of reaching in a sick animal's cage but there was no fierceness left in the sagging flesh no heat in the eyes as they rolled sideways to look at me 42 It It took three men to get you home. because you could not walk nor even stand they dragged you clear across our room still sitting in your gray desk chair sweating and straining they bumped you past the alto section into the hallway your head slumped heavy legs spreading awkwardly apart I had wanted so badly to see you struck down humbled as you had humbled so many others but the sight of you scraping across the floor on that chair burned a deep hole in me which ached for days They told us your daughter was dying. Eventually you returned awesome and penetrating as ever but it was not the same we had seen you stripped naked and could never believe in your power again 43 and I could not fill up the emptiness of that ugly hole 44 TRACKING DOWN A MISSING SUCTION PUMP AT COMMUNITY HOSPITAL Old man, I do not even know your name but you will leave this place someday your prone gray body solemnly flanked two men in muted suits their white shirts crisp even at 3 a.m. I crept in here yesterday during the ash-covered dawn you were sleeping/unconscious it doesn't really matter which I only came to verify the call number on your suction pump but stood, instead, beside you watching that clear tube spiraling down from suspended bottle like some thin wiry snake dripping venom into your vein 45 its transparent mate springs from your nostril its twisting body brutally fastened down by adhesive tape it hisses like a thing alive arches up indignantly then coils tightly slithers into the jar below You could be someone's father/husband perhaps people once looked up to you but all I see, old man is this nest of snakes crawling on your flesh and you, paralyzed by their poison Already dead 46 A PERMANENT IMAGE We found the chipmunk underneath the kitchen sink twisting and squealing in pain having feasted on rat poison not meant for him While we pressed in among the crusted pipes and towering jars of soap and polish wondering how he got in and what we could do to save him You quietly stepped outside to find your shovel Get a box, someone shouted And some soft rags! But already you held the chipmunk in the giant steel palm of your shovel still rolling from side to side eyes shut tight as any crying baby We crowded through the back door You ahead of us striding quickly toward the underbrush 47 Slowly, you eased the chipmunk onto the brittle grass then paused to take in the ring of silent spectators drawn like magnets to the steel blade of your shovel You had not expected an audience but we stood there fixated on glistening metal You staring down at the squirming chipmunk Your face pinched as though a bad smell had escaped from an opening in the ground Suddenly You cracked his neck with the clean slick edge of your shovel You, my father who hated killing so much you refused to fight in war who risked your life to drag back the wounded cracked the neck of that chipmunk as though you were snapping a string bean 48 The backyard hung suspended in silent shock while the brown fur quivered and finally lay still I glanced around at the rest of them eyes glazed with horror by this execution of a thing so innocent and I knew then that they did not understand Two stabs into the crumbling earth hollowed out a grave You slid him in, head flopping loosely water—color streaks of blood painted on the muddy shovel I expected you to wash it off but instead, you walked back to the house 49 They hung around, these young friends of mine their hands burrowing deep into pockets-— I knew what they were thinking and I wanted so much to tell them that you were not cold-blooded that only a strong person could have killed the chipmunk that you hated violence above everything—- except suffering but I didn't say a word While you sealed the poison inside an empty jar and swept beneath the sink we milled aimlessly in the sun-scorched grass the three of them quiet and uneasy with me now an image of you fixed in their minds like the blood and dirt hardening on your shovel blade 50 DON'T COUNT ME IN WITH THE REAL SKIERS My red Schwinn bike lives on after nineteen years a remarkable feat since bicycles like dogs have shorter lives than humans In bike-years he could be close to eighty but faithful as ever, prolonging for me a memory of simpler days when bed sheets were only white and you could make cole-slaw without a blender and to think I neglected the old hulk for years, ashamed of balloon tires the sloping metal bar which hopelessly labled him "sissy bike" the rusty wire basket bolted permanently to the handlebars I even tried scraping off the ”Screamin' Demon” decal stuck on the front fender since 4th grade but it was of no use a pack of sleek silver lO-speeds with toe stirrups had taken over the neighborhood roaming the streets like wolves 51 I had no choice but to abandon him. He fought all the way but I dragged him down the basement steps and stuffed the battered frame into the crawl-space even then I knew I could never buy another bicycle instead I devised an alternate plan which would boost my standing among peers I took up skiing a sport virtually untouched by the average hick-town citizen I started out in an old corduroy coat rented skis knee socks underneath my mittens didn't realize even little snot-faced kids would eye me with disgust for spoiling the scenery mortified, I fled to the nearest department store and bought the works: hot-pink ski coat navy stretch pants skis boots poles It wasn't enough. 52 my new skis, although lacking the words RENTAL EQUIPMENT in neon tape had chintzy cable bindings the obvious mark of low social class and my boots had laces the real skiers wore buckle boots I sold back my tie boots at a great loss and bought the cheapest pair of buckles let them jingle when I stomped through the club house didn't know the real skiers were trained to tell the make of a boot 10 feet away. and right after I bought those lousy stretch pants that shaped me into a valentine the industry came out with bell-bottomed ski wear then zippered warm-up pants and matching jackets While I saved up money for new bindings the list grew longer before I could hope to be accepted I would have to own: a boot tree, tinted goggles, ski mitts with those useless metal clips on the cuff, color coordinated suspenders, a ski rack... and in the lodge a mild outbreak of the latest invention—- molded foam boots-- had quarantined the real skiers from the hordes of riff-raff 53 Finally, my skis hit a patch of mud I packed up my gear and waited for spring during which time I exhumed Screamin' Demon from the crawl-space he sustained two flat tires and a bent kick—stand but was otherwise in good shape We have become inseparable friends He takes me everywhere in spite of a sluggish chain still clogged by bits of crepe paper streamers some 4th of July parade years ago I ride along proud and straight-backed because the handlebars do not curve down like the ridiculous horns of a mountain goat and I tell everyone how I dumped a paper sack full of pennies on the counter, totaling eight bucks it was my life's savings at age 7 and some poor bike dealer had to count it the pedals didn't even reach my feet for almost a year but I loved that shiny red bike and when my husband, veteran of a 2,000 mile bike expedition crudely suggested we junk it I almost ran over him 54 TO THE THREE SENORITAS If I were literate this is the poem I would write for you, Sefioritas whose terrazzo floors I scrubbed each day for whom I kept curried shrimp and guisquil waiting in the oven I bargained for your fruits and vegetables then carried them home on my head washed three sets of sheets and towels each week slapping them against the cement until they were purged your dresses panties slips and bras I washed ironed folded and put away touching the lace and because you were fresh out of middleclass America you couldn't bear to see me work weekends so I went home to my village most Saturday afternoons you gave me old dresses and sandals with broken straps occasionally some eye shadow or lip—stick you couldn't use 55 you knew nothing about keeping a servant at first my cramped living quarters appalled you the thin mattress in the corner a wooden crate toilet with no seat and you thought I should eat in the dining room you never guessed that maids are not allowed to eat the food they cook for their masters and that maids have their own plate cup and fork washed and stored separately from the master's dishes you even cleaned up the kitchen yourselves after those midnight binges where you rationed out chocolate chips sent over by your families and made cookies to stave off homesickness 56 and when someone shot my husband father of six children in the head you wanted to have him moved from the poor hospital to the real hospital but you couldn't take off work to arrange it I understood I know that the life of a campesino is not important yet you loaned me two-hundred dollars to build a house made of corrugated metal for my brother's family agreeing to deduct a portion of my pay each month for a year you worried that without the money my children would go hungry so you wrapped up left-over bits of food and sent them home with me on Saturdays 57 when your toaster oven burned out you gave it to me my friend repaired it for a few centavos you wanted it back I could tell by your eyes but you told me to take it home every maid on our street despised me because of your blonde hair and your men coming and leaving but I endured you, Sehoritas because you offered the best life if I could read and write this would be my poem to you 58 If» I ALWAYS MEANT TO CALL For Aunt Kate I always meant to call but each time I stalled by the phone searching desperately for some small peg on which to hang my attention for the moment so, I scoured the months of yellow grease off the bottom of my electric skillet watered my two brittle ferns sorted wool skirts and pants for the dry cleaners and all the while that lemon-sized tumor in your throat pressed against mine until I couldn't breathe 59 I pictured you out in the garage paint-stained bandana wrapped around your faded copper hair scraping the varnish off an antique table like a tireless scrubwoman always working always taking care of everyone. When I was so sick that time you tied a bulgy heating pad smeared with Vick's jelly on my chest until I stopped coughing. It felt so good, at age 24, to be tucked in between flannel sheets my lungs glowing white from hot menthol fumes And yet, each time I stopped by the phone wanting to just simply tell you how much you meant to me that tumor swelled in my throat and I found something else to do until finally you called me. 60 Could I use any green beans or tomatoes? you wouldn't be canning anymore. This fall. I tried to explain, then how I always meant to call a faltering string of cliches fake as dimestore jewelry which left me feeling more ashamed so today, you lie in a strange city in a strange bed curled in spasms of nausea reliving an earlier time when you were younger than I am now and they hacked at your lungs the bull-frog throat is sliced away you wrapped in white gauze 61 I study my living room wall studded with artwork/souvenirs Guatemalan ceremonial mask carved gourd woodblock print of two Mexican peasants bloated violin-like instrument from a market in Istanbul etcetera my treasures which I proudly display Suddenly, I am angry with all of them they have become my own cliches gaudy and crowded there on the wall I rip nails and picture hangers out of the plaster dab putty in the cracks and holes paint the wall rolling up/down/sideways it looks clean and fragile as eggshells and frighteningly naked 62 sayingnt'lovérypu to those I-care about 63 BLOOD RELATIONS I look down in dismay at the heavy veins pulsing like masses of blue earthworms on my white legs legs swollen with clotting blood blood which kills the women in my family I think of my mother whose purple legs we rarely saw hidden beneath flesh—colored elastic unable to walk at age twelve her left leg thick and heavy as a tree trunk central vein blocked by stagnant blood I think of my mother's mother who raised eight children and still died young bloated leg too tender even for goose down blood thickening like syrup 64 I think of my grandmother's mother struggling up hours after childbirth to milk the cows dragging her heavy leg with its tangled clotting veins she died that night and left three babies I look down at the frozen blue veins surfacing like the roots of a tree along my wrists and hands and I am reminded of the heritage passed on to me. Four generations has not diluted Our blood. 65 llllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllll