Just
Another Lost and Found
We found her one Friday
in July,
lost and living with her dog and her cat
in a 1986 Toyota.
There’s no shade on that street.
No mercy, either.
She said
she’d tried living in the U-Haul
when they drove her furniture away.
But the cops found her.
They made her sit on the curb while they searched
the truck,
and the neighbors only stared.
So
we took her home, let her soak in the bathtub,
fed her, tried to heal her
bewilderment,
handed her tissues as she finally let herself cry.
On Monday, we found an agency and took her there for help.
They found her
a bed.
Somehow, she found her voice.
I
used to be someone.
I was a good daughter, a good sister, a good wife.
I did good honest work and earned a good living.
I was . . . where am . .
. what is this place?
Where am I? I’m sorry, I keep losing it . . .
Look at me! I’m fifty-eight years old!
This isn’t supposed to happen
when you’re fifty-eight years old!
I’m sorry . . . what am
I supposed to do now?
What . . . what is it you want me to do? |
She got lost in the complexities of the agency,
got lost out
on unremembered streets,
parked her car on a hill by a house
and lost
it, too.
It’s just another unfortunate loss to society.
And
how will we ever find her again?
Next
is a poem I've used in several versions in several places. This is the one poem
that actually got me out of bed and at my computer at 3 a.m.
There
is a web of women
There
is a web of women living lightly in the world.
As gently as hand upon forehead,
checking for fever,
the web touches the pulse of the planet with intention
to help
to heal
to comfort.
There
is a flood of women weeping softly for the world.
As tender as hand upon heart,
cherishing her precious children,
the web cries for lost intention
to
heal
to comfort
to help.
There
is a circle of women dancing joyfully through the world.
As exultant as hand
touching yoni, celebrating our mysteries,
the web sings for intention found
again
to comfort
to help
to heal.
There
is a web of women tenderly enclosing the world.
As sturdy as hands setting
roots, planting community,
the web encircles intention held
to help
to heal
to comfort.
Finally,
I wrote the following poem about a decade ago to introduce a not-yet-published
novel about a group of crones and their friends. It was inspired by the women
I observed at a convalescent home while I was serving as a companion to an eighty-two-year-old
woman afflicted with Alzheimer's disease as well as by my grandmother and some
of my friends' grandmothers. (Here is a true story that one friend's grandmother
told her. My friend told me about it. The widows were sitting around one night
and the subject of husbands came up. "Who wants another husband at our age?"
one woman asked. "Not me," said my friend's grandmother. "Not even
if he had a diamond prick.")
Gimme
Back My
The
old women slump
in their basement circle,
settling brittle bones on shaky
metal chairs,
shading eyes against harsh light,
fanning away hot, stale
air.
Canes and walkers at their sides,
they still wait,
nodding, trembling,
drooling.
The
duty nurse,
a slim brown woman,
sits in the shadows out of reach
silent
as the basalt queen on her basalt throne.
Sits thinking about her husband
who disappeared last week
(she'll search seas and deserts to find him if she
has to).
Sits dreaming about her baby boy,
aching to hold him to her breast
again.
The
social worker shimmies in the center,
a vigorous amazon whose ancestors
were stolen from central Africa.
"Girls! Girls!"
She rattles
the sistrum.
"Y'all ready now? Look lively here.
Get the spirit on,
Ladies! Get some life in it!"
It's
their favorite game,
this basement therapy,
their memory game.
What'll
they bring to mind today
in their call and response around the circle?
Gimme
back my
long pearl necklace from my wedding day.
Gimme back my
smooth
white hands that did such fine embroidery.
Gimme
back my
plain old house
and my kitchen, too.
Gimme
back my
crazy quilt my mama pieced
garden where the robins played
barefoot bashful beaus.
Gimme
back my
dear old husband
--he didn't know me when he died.
Gimme
back my
babies that I loved so much
--they died so awful young.
The
sistrum's call hurls ancient lights around the women
and Hathor sprinkles
stars reinventing primal time.
Her voice reflects the clear-calling crescent
moon,
and the wind calls, too,
bearing scents of flowers, spices,
fruitful earth, ancient waters,
silver tide, crimson flow, ebony drought.
The
nurse stretches,
spreading golden wings,
waking from her age-old dreams.
The Giver of Life is back in touch again,
feeling new life
(in her belly,
too).
Isis wakes again,
rising to the call of life.
Isis quickens
to the calls of age and life.
Songs
of archaic queens
echo through the circle now,
songs of power,
songs
of return.
Gimme
back my mother's milk
Gimme back my healing touch
Gimme back my sexy body.
Give
me back my dignity.
Give me back my peaceful world.
Give me back my crown.
You
can read more of my poetry in my new book, Pagan Every Day.
