on the dark
face before it hardened, pale, remembering
delicate old injuries, the spines of names and leaves.
Dear John Wayne
August and the drive-in picture is packed.
We lounge on the hood of the Pontiac
surrounded by the slow-burning spirals they sell
at the window, to vanquish the hordes of mosquitoes.
Nothing works. They break through the smoke screen for blood.
Always the lookout spots the Indians first,
spread north to south, barring progress.
The Sioux or some other Plains bunch
in spectacular columns, ICBM missiles,
feathers bristling in the meaningful sunset.
The drum breaks. There will be no parlance.
Only the arrows whining, a death-cloud of nerves
swarming down on the settlers
who die beautifully, tumbling like dust weeds
into the history that brought us all here
together: this wide screen beneath the sign of the bear.
The sky fills, acres of blue squint and eye
that the crowd cheers. His face moves over us,
a thick cloud of vengeance, pitted
like the land that was once flesh. Each rut,
each scar makes a promise: It is
not over, this fight, not as long as you resist.
Everything we see belongs to us.
A few laughing Indians fall over the hood
slipping in the hot spilled butter.
The eye sees a lot, John, but the heart is so blind.
Death makes us owners of nothing.
He smiles, a horizon of teeth
the credits reel over, and then the white fields
again blowing in the true-to-life dark.
The dark films over everything.
We get into the car
scratching our mosquito bites, speechless and small
as people are when the movie is done.
We are back in our skins.
How can we help but keep hearing his voice,
the flip side of the sound track, still playing:
Come on, boys, we got them
where we want them, drunk, running.
They’ll give us what we want, what we need.
Even his disease was the idea of taking everything.
Those cells, burning, doubling, splitting out of their skins.
Manitoulin Ghost
Once there was a girl who died in a fire in this house, here on Bidwell road. Now she keeps coming back, trying to hitch a ride out of here. Watch out for her at night and do not stop.
—Mary Lou Fox
Each night she waits by the road
in a thin, white dress
embroidered with fire.
It has been twenty years
since her house surged and burst in the dark trees.
Still, nobody goes there.
The heat charred the branches
of the apple trees,
but nothing can kill that wood.
She will climb into your car
but not say where she is going
and you shouldn’t ask.
Nor should you try to comb the blackened nest of hair
or press the agates of tears
back into her eyes.
First the orchard bowed low and complained
of the unpicked fruit,
then the branches cracked apart and fell.
The windfalls sweetened to wine
beneath the ruined arms and snow.
Each spring now, in the grass, buds form on the tattered wood.
The child, the child, why is she so persistent
in her need? Is it so terrible
to be alone when the cold white blossoms
come to life and burn?
Three Sisters
One sister wore the eyes of an old man
around her neck.
Scratched porcelain
washed down
with the hot lye of his breath.
One sister rode love
like a ship in light wind.
The sails of her body
unfurled at a touch.
No man could deny her
safe passage, safe harbor.
The youngest was shut like a bell.
The white thorns of silence
pricked in each bush
where she walked,
and the grass stopped growing where she stood.
One year the three sisters came out of their rooms,
swaying like the hot roses
that papered their walls.
They walked, full grown, into the heart of our town.
Young men broke their eyes
against their eyes of stone,
and singed their shy tongues
on the stunned flames of their mouths.
It was in late August in the long year of drought.
The pool halls were winnowed
and three men drew lots
to marry the sisters, all six in a great house.
On the night
face before it hardened, pale, remembering
delicate old injuries, the spines of names and leaves.
Dear John Wayne
August and the drive-in picture is packed.
We lounge on the hood of the Pontiac
surrounded by the slow-burning spirals they sell
at the window, to vanquish the hordes of mosquitoes.
Nothing works. They break through the smoke screen for blood.
Always the lookout spots the Indians first,
spread north to south, barring progress.
The Sioux or some other Plains bunch
in spectacular columns, ICBM missiles,
feathers bristling in the meaningful sunset.
The drum breaks. There will be no parlance.
Only the arrows whining, a death-cloud of nerves
swarming down on the settlers
who die beautifully, tumbling like dust weeds
into the history that brought us all here
together: this wide screen beneath the sign of the bear.
The sky fills, acres of blue squint and eye
that the crowd cheers. His face moves over us,
a thick cloud of vengeance, pitted
like the land that was once flesh. Each rut,
each scar makes a promise: It is
not over, this fight, not as long as you resist.
Everything we see belongs to us.
A few laughing Indians fall over the hood
slipping in the hot spilled butter.
The eye sees a lot, John, but the heart is so blind.
Death makes us owners of nothing.
He smiles, a horizon of teeth
the credits reel over, and then the white fields
again blowing in the true-to-life dark.
The dark films over everything.
We get into the car
scratching our mosquito bites, speechless and small
as people are when the movie is done.
We are back in our skins.
How can we help but keep hearing his voice,
the flip side of the sound track, still playing:
Come on, boys, we got them
where we want them, drunk, running.
They’ll give us what we want, what we need.
Even his disease was the idea of taking everything.
Those cells, burning, doubling, splitting out of their skins.
Manitoulin Ghost
Once there was a girl who died in a fire in this house, here on Bidwell road. Now she keeps coming back, trying to hitch a ride out of here. Watch out for her at night and do not stop.
—Mary Lou Fox
Each night she waits by the road
in a thin, white dress
embroidered with fire.
It has been twenty years
since her house surged and burst in the dark trees.
Still, nobody goes there.
The heat charred the branches
of the apple trees,
but nothing can kill that wood.
She will climb into your car
but not say where she is going
and you shouldn’t ask.
Nor should you try to comb the blackened nest of hair
or press the agates of tears
back into her eyes.
First the orchard bowed low and complained
of the unpicked fruit,
then the branches cracked apart and fell.
The windfalls sweetened to wine
beneath the ruined arms and snow.
Each spring now, in the grass, buds form on the tattered wood.
The child, the child, why is she so persistent
in her need? Is it so terrible
to be alone when the cold white blossoms
come to life and burn?
Three Sisters
One sister wore the eyes of an old man
around her neck.
Scratched porcelain
washed down
with the hot lye of his breath.
One sister rode love
like a ship in light wind.
The sails of her body
unfurled at a touch.
No man could deny her
safe passage, safe harbor.
The youngest was shut like a bell.
The white thorns of silence
pricked in each bush
where she walked,
and the grass stopped growing where she stood.
One year the three sisters came out of their rooms,
swaying like the hot roses
that papered their walls.
They walked, full grown, into the heart of our town.
Young men broke their eyes
against their eyes of stone,
and singed their shy tongues
on the stunned flames of their mouths.
It was in late August in the long year of drought.
The pool halls were winnowed
and three men drew lots
to marry the sisters, all six in a great house.
On the night
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