you are stone
by nature resistant
cold testament
to slow work of wind
I am simpler flesh
even my bones
disappear. Hands
press granite,
the suggestion of a face
I cannot move you.
You could crush
me easily.
My work must be gentle
as rain’s fingers,
subtle as new roots
spinning passage.
Still, you are rock
unmoving,
a silence without breath.
Our meeting
a slow grind
that should span centuries.
This third day
of spring
a child embraces sky
it is so blue
the year our garden gave too much
we sold zucchini at the roadside
my father’s farmer friend
drove slowly by our stand, pretending to cry
as we stole his business
& we two (capitalists
disguised as girls)
stuck out our tongues
Perhaps now
After years of silence
& empty pages
I am finding a voice again
Now, my words break free
Of the dry husk wrapped in layers
That kept them safely from light
Emerge from the earth singing
& fly
My song may be offensive and discordant,
But it is loud
& cannot be ignored
my sister died on a Tuesday morning
the telephone
an inconvenient interruption
until my mother’s voice
7 states away
repeated itself
what is she saying about my sister
we planned to grow old together
still arguing
& playing scrabble
someone said to me, later
“I am sorry for your trouble,”
like death is an inconvenience
like getting stuck in traffic
or spilling coffee on a new dress
who was I to think
the morning should be less beautiful
the air cooler
because she no longer breathed into it;
but the world did not pause for an instant
death simply the end of one cycle
and the beginning of another
still, it was shocking to learn
that particular sky
was as blue as it was
when her eyes
no longer saw it
in the land of the white man
desert sun twists our vision
in heat-driven delirium
to see only ourselves
those unlike us have papers in their pockets
ready to prove they have the right to sweep our sacred streets
while they perform jobs no white man wants
they are trained to leave
once the yards are manicured
& the trash is taken to the curb
here we keep women so pure
their bodies are templed
for our children
& their breasts
simply fountains of milk
if we find pleasure in them
we will not speak of it
in the land of the white man
we will carry guns
strapped to our hips
as our God-given privilege
ready to murder
what is rational
& therefore dangerous
The boy stood behind the podium
& said fuck
he giggled as it flew past his lips
an unruly bird
escaping into listening air
such an artist
to toss that word
casually
like a child jumping rope
skipping easily over raw power
Sitting in rows, almost like a classroom
his friends laugh to one another, he said f—
It must be a strong poem
strong words
by themselves
do not make strong poetry
He read that night
that word, as incomprehending as me
the first time I used that word
in a rhyming game with my sister
shouted down the hall after truck, duck, luck
I was 3
& my mother washed my mouth out with soap
10 years later
I figured out what word I said
now I know
how to use that word in context
how it should only be shouted
or whispered
as if praying to any god who will listen
murmured in rhythm with pleasure spreading
through nerve and bone/blood resonating
with orgasm
our bodies
collections of particles dissolving
Susan Daniels Poetry 