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