I.
Vees of geese are sewing Denver back into its morning,
where telescopic, multifaceted periscopes
take in the entire dance & climb.
To the west, snow- peaked triangles; downtown,
rectangles of finance & domes of government;
under the interstate, warehouses of industry &
puffs of cottonwood along the river.
The city’s trains with their lines of fat tankers & flats
coo into the sunrise.
Semi trucks’ engines turned over earlier in the dark,
when busy moms woke early for coffee,
just to be still & alone.
From my back deck I watch the geese
stitching with their black needles,
I know they are only a speck of the dance
& this moment is all of it.
II.
Even DNA dances--microscopic, subatomic, or less—
beyond what I can imagine the body to be.
Our molecules jump their charged moments & surge,
not with purpose or place, but to move.
My heart pumps quarts every minute through
lengths of blood vessels that, stretched out,
could criss-cross the Pacific Ocean twice.
Fifty-two bones in my feet, flat as a deck of cards,
lucky to have ligaments & tendons, to bend & twist,
to allow both a curtsy & a kick.
III.
A dozen women spaced apart in a studio with a wooden floor &
walls of mirrors, where, for one hour,
we will be a universe of movement.
First we buzz, wondering what the music will be this time—
strings for a Bollywood hip shaking,
Indian windpipes cooing,
blues from a pained throat, or
jazz hands spread in surprise, a
hip hop fist pumping,
a stomping jig, or a Charleston swing?
It starts inside a moment, but then a step forward & back,
a repetition & reversal, as our faces become our real faces
--no chit chat, none of that;
bones find their right places & skin begins to cleanse itself.
We attend the beat as the voices of the universe
announce themselves, an unexpected horn
blares in the heating & cooling of prayer.
When we did that, we were wild geese re-stitching the sky.
IV.
Life is not a dance exactly; what I am trying to say is that
both are an outside movement from
an inside moment that will not stay put.
When I say the geese dance, it is a metaphor for their search
for food, the driven constant work of their sleek bodies.
When a family of waddlers blocks the park road—
some taking their own sweet time to cross over,
some waiting,
others daring forward then changing their minds,
I stop my car for them in my capsule of amazement.
I want to wrap my arms around one of the big ones
& carry it onto the dance floor, switch off all the lights
--no others, just me & the music & the goose.
Teach me, I say, flipping a switch on the sound system,
hoping it’s something the goose likes.
V.
In the front of the studio the goose faces away for a moment, listening
& when she turns back to me & opens her beak,
she cries out the slow deep voice of gospel:
I don’t know how my mother walked her trouble down.
I don’t know how my father stood his ground. . .
I don’t know why the angels woke me up this morning soon
I don’t know why blood runs thru my veins. . .*
She stands so still there, a bird with the blues,
maybe thinking of her parents fallen in a field
somewhere over Nebraska,
or her stolen egg,
a lost fledgling,
& I stand with her until her relentless eye closes
& she takes a step backward.
I take a step backward.
*From “I Remember, I Believe,” by Bernice Johnson Reagon
Jackie published 250 copies of her poem book, Re-stitching the Sky, signed and numbered, handset, designed, letterpress printing with sewn binding done by Tom Parson (http://www.letterpressdepot.com). This book is not for sale, but may be used for educational purposes.
Turkey Buzzard Press
https://www.coloradopoetscenter.org/eWords/issue25/turkeyBuzzard.html
