sorry about the hair
women girls, I was busy
shaping this body
these muscles
that strength
tight and precise
as a strung bow
to send flesh
like the toned arrow
it is
into that shiny gold target
too busy
to notice the sloppy ponytail
would embarrass
my critics sisters
next time
I will spend less time training
and more time grooming
because that’s what wins
medals approval
if what wakes you
from dreaming
is hungry
my grandmother would say
to make a husk doll
from leaves holding close
to dry cobs
of braided colored corn
soak them to softness
and braid cornsilk hair
darkened yellow to brown
keep her faceless
not as punishment for beauty
as the no-face dolls for playing
but no nose for this dream-holder
made of husks
to scent and steal sweetness
do not give her eyes
to see where she is planted
to walk her way back
do not give her a mouth
to whisper your name
to what moves in the earth
saying your flesh
is better eating
than her leaves
bury the bad dream
and walk away lighter
those imaginings
shaking you awake
wrapped inside that husk
and no longer in your heart
my fathers
traded kindness
for want
fur for mirrors
land for beads
meat for smallpox
folded in blankets
what is left
for me to trade
or gamble
but spirit
the one thing I own
that is neither worn
nor broken
and mine
if gravity
moves us closer
to the solid core
the desire of matter
earth holds for us
a stone hunger
lightly expressed
so as to keep
what is loved
unbroken
then, perhaps
this overwhelming pull
towards you
can be expressed
but controlled
in equally quiet strength
my children write cursive
on stone
with stick pens
and creek water ink
I write something
less permanent
than this
the scribed love song
of a cicada
17 years underground
tasting tree roots
and silently digging
climbs from mud
and out of this faded skin
to fly one day
or two
before starvation
weakens wings
and gravity claims
that weight
again part of the soil
my mother
read every book
in the public library
in card catalog order
one summer
starting with fiction
authors “A”
and ending
at the reference section
addiction passes
from one generation
to the next
and her fever
flamed me
impossible to measure
and I burned through
a book a day
and still do
if it is fiction
though now
I do it scrolling titles
on an electronic screen
instead of turning
bound paper
harder to set goals
or make a statement
when what is read
no longer lines a shelf
in a long challenge
or curls under your arm
announcing mindset
without any mouth opening;
the pages sighing out
scents of ink, dust
and fingerprints
less personal
the way I read now
pages that blink
rather than turning;
fade into each other
with a finger tap
the katydids are done
trading accusations
this early morning
it is time for crickets and owls
to sing the small hours
before first light
teases the atmosphere
from starred black
to stained-glass blue
premonition to another sunrise
I am going to miss
unless I am still awake to meet it
Susan Daniels Poetry 