Even trees have chronologies,
unspoken stories, annual rings a diary
of each year of life. Some of your stories
remain silent, too--you speak them
in other ways, passing them on to me;
not written on paper with ink,
they are recorded in my bones and veins,
bound in my skin. I undertand--
you don't have to say a word. Other times
you seem unfamiliar to me, just as in years
without summer certain rings of the tree
are missing--times when growth and strength
are made known only by cutting a cross section.
Couture
The cut of the dress takes me back
to the ones you used to sew,
shaped to your curved
hips, slim waist, seams and darts
at the bust and modest
necklines. I can still breathe in
the scent of Hoogie's Drygoods
as you choose Vogue patterns
mimicking photos
of Jackie O;
at home, you knelt on the floor,
layed the pattern out, tightly, tissue paper
pinned to wool, or Fortrel, me
propped up on spindle
elbows, watching as the puzzle
fit together. At the machine, your brow
furled, pins in the seams of your lips, fingers
nimble, you'd slip them out before the needle's
speedy approach, foot pressed to the pedal
like you were tailgating in your black
Chevrolet Corvair, but you were so careful;
there was always just enough
fabric left, your Singer humming a new
girl's 6X blouse, skirt or hair-band for me,
an accessory,
cut from the same cloth
as you altered the pattern, just a bit here
and there.
My Life Cannot be Grasped
"My life cannot be grasped as a singular totality."
--Paul Ricouer
A life cannot be grasped
as a singular totality. The story
of my death can only be told
by others; my beginning, only
by others. My birth belongs
to the history of my parents.
It is the story in the middle
that I will tell. Let me
share it with you, then ask you
if you will tell my ending
after I'm gone, if you will
be the one to tell the story of love.