Ode to My Skirt

--After Pablo Neruda’s “Ode to My Sox”

 

Skirt of fabric that becomes 

more than a skirt

more than worthy of a crown

in winter in summer

fabric that breathes

and keeps warm

has all aspirations

of a living breathing forest of kelp

which sustains an ocean of feeders—

woven through octopus and eel

silver schools of small fish

sort through the fibers

extended green bobbles

ever gigantic

magnified

magnificent.

 

Skirt which has no code

no moral fiber of its own

would survive in fire

could serve as a table cloth

could be cut into pants

worn on a trail in the Tibetan Himalayas

ever narrowing

explorer’s dream

customs like a Frank Capra film

before the illusion vanishes.

 

Skirt that could go to school

and teach the teachers a thing or two

about origin and design

fertile grasses cut low by the sun

steps to the gods

a city on a hill

that did not belong to any one person

but a village, dwelling in stone.

Nuns come to Machu Pichu to take photos

habits mirror soul

empirical black, the unseen

and white, the pure.

What can they ascertain—

like blackbirds they can only

peck through the fiber’s tiny holes

the sacred hidden.

 

Yellow Trees

 

Emily Carr painting, Art Gallery of Greater Victoria

Trees are never that yellow

edge of forest descending

to mineral runoff

red brown stench undulating

like a roller coaster,

 

trees vertical swirls

and horizontal discs, movement

essential. It could be

 

the wind

a place of worship

 

the way they readjust

skirts in preparation

and below, tiny figures,

 

undershoots stage their appearance

rolling within, soon adults

 

who will finally understand

when elders get topped off

inward torment.

 

In Christina Rossetti’s “silent land”

she does not see shadows

 

nor the rain

abundant in death—

even the moon when it rises

 

is not sterile

curtain of trees half drawn

 

and the bay, always near,

with a million inlets beyond.

Does death turn us immune?

 

What does it means to be a daughter

unable to see closely sculpted bushes

 

amid unconditional love

and merciless criticism—

my mother saying after her stroke,

 

“I have no skills”

falling from a height of abundance,

 

green turning to fall 

early that year—

six months later

 

preparing the memorial

I would know her better.

 

I hear a cry of endless sorrow 

wet faces

search for the part of myself

 

lost without my mother

dissolving into sheer color and shape

 

with nothing to hold

down ribbons of

chartreuse, orange, purple.

 

Perry Mason in 2020

 

 

Della Street and Perry Mason

“Della, get Paul Drake. I’m going to send him to Mexico to follow up on this.”

“Perry, remember, the wall was just completed. We didn’t vote for the guy, but we have to live with this. We can’t just go over unless we don’t care about returning.”

“Oh, right, Della. Then let’s do it this way. We’ll drive up to Bakersville and see a man about a pawn ticket.”

“I don’t know. Won’t Trag be alerted?”

“Trag’s in the hospital with Covid. It’s Berger I’m worried about. He’d have a field day if he knew we had the mink coat. Send Trag’s replacement the ticket.”

“Perry, that’s so sad about Trag. But I just thought of one other thing. Should we be concerned about Dixie Dayton not wearing a face mask? What’ll we do when we find her?”

“Right, Della. The way she flew out of the restaurant. Though I’m thinking of that hard looking man—his eyes sharp as razors. You don’t miss anything with his mouth covered. Remember how he didn’t turn around when the police came in to talk with Maurie?”

“Perry, not to change the subject, but I think we should get new masks ourselves. These are a little—”

“Shabby is what you’re going to say. I’m not a mind reader, but I know you. This isn’t a fashion show, Della. How would it look coming into court with anything fancy? Not that we have any onlookers. Just us, Berger’s people, and the witnesses and judge. I just heard they are pushing trials back even further. Too dangerous after that the San Francisco incident. Thankfully, Los Angeles is taking the right measures. Yes, yes, I know. Okay. You’re wondering if I’m done.”

“Well, yes. Are we heading to Morrie’s? I could use some dinner.”

“Della. Here’s your coat. Let’s do that, shall we.”

“Wait, Perry, I hear Paul next door.”

“Hi beautiful.”

“Hi, Paul. You know I love it, but you should be careful. Did you hear the secretary down the hall sued her employer for harassment? Oh, don’t worry. I’m just kidding.”

“Paul, I hope you were able to get some information. Yes, get out your notebook.”

“Perry, you just won’t believe it. I found Dixie, and—”

“What? Do you find Dixie’s behavior inconsistent?”

“Perry. She’s a woman.”

“That’s no excuse.”

“I’m just wondering what’s next, Perry.”

“Paul, funny that you should ask that. I want you to get the next flight to Washington. There’s some dark money in Supreme Court nominations I want you to look at. Not our usual line, I know, but we have to do it. You know who I want to investigate.”

“I have a hunch. Okay. I’ll get on my horse.”

“Come on, Della. Let’s go to dinner. Paul, call me the minute you arrive.”

Athena

 

My mother at the Erecheum, Athens, Greece, 1957.

The Erechtheion is an ancient Greek temple 

constructed on the acropolis of Athens 

between 421 and 406 BCE.

 

You did not inherit the throne

dear daughter—

no map-like memory

or language ability

no attributes of the Gods.

You are fallible, human,

whereas I don the grey gleaming

olive crown of Athens.

 

Modern thought? Wisdom? 

I embody them both.

I did not spring from my father’s head—

the birth was typical.

 

My family was marked by peculiar happenings

the ancient half dragon, half human creature

really an ordinary man,

and another forced into a pretend marriage.

 

My father drove an electric milk truck

on Brooklyn streets

so we did not want for anything.

My mother was plumber, cook, 

sewer of clothing until

she fell down on the sidewalk

cancer riddled.

 

I was already in college at age 16

when they tried to split us up

but I prevailed—my brother did not

go to cousins in Florida.

 

I’m called the goddess of war,

contested Poseidon for Attica.

I know how to battle

intimidation of a daughter a sacred art

shame in money issues a boon for my glory.

 

I taught you to read and showed

what I could of life

by example. 

I have worn armor, helmet,

and a shield showing two lions devouring a bull.

 

I did not abuse my power.

There, in Erechtheum—

you will find my statue

glorifying the city’s influence.

 

You will find me in the theater of Dionysius,

at the Parthenon,

or in my temple in Delphi.

Look in the marketplace of Athens for me—

I like handicrafts, weaving.

Look in the orchards

for fruits under my protection.

 

Olympus trembles terribly

under my bright eyes—

the earth groans sorely

the sea heaves in purple waves.