Day 11-14 NaPoWriMo

11. How I Came About

Mama’s intention was to have more children, maybe at first just to

replace the baby boy who died, and then with a new boy, the need for

a girl came to light. I’ve always wanted one of each, she said, and then

I came along, A fast child wanting to pop out in the backseat of the yellow

cab that Mama and I road to the hospital in. And Daddy, she told me later,

wasn’t in the cab, nor did he give us a ride in his Silver Eagle, because he

was on the road, the driver of a big rig that I have no recollection of, but

in my made-up story, I see it parked outside the house and Mama climbing

a little ladder because the cab sat far off the ground. Up and in we went

and off to the hospital, Daddy honking that big semi horn all the way there.

With an adventure like that, there was no need to come out in the back of

a cab. I wanted anyway, to make my mother happy. 

12. Ahtanum Ridge

The mountains are bare, like they’ve forgotten

to dress this morning, the flesh in a

high crease, folds seductively, the waist also

bends to wrinkle and crease where

shade becomes prominent, brush growing

in damp places.

First one brown hill, then

another devoid of trees

Waxed smooth each morning

13. Two Birds Fly, One Hits the Window

We are in a wind   a big blow   knocking furniture

across the back porch    the sky is gray-black    the sound of a truck, a plane     a freight train once when the wind hit 90     miles per hour is high  and so the birds fly willy-nilly on gusting currents     meanwhile a solar wind blows down through the atmosphere    clocking our hearts at a sensational speed    their rhythm and our minds race    sleep evades us    the rustling whistling wind alters trajectory    it is always ringing bells and busting heads   fast around corners    birds sit tight   your fellow has fallen

14.

What the Dictionary Has to Say

My repeating dream is of a wobbly table floating

about a room, tipping teacups and saucers toward the floor but like a flying carpet, lift into the air swirl around. All this is orchestrated by a magician with black eyes, laughing as he twirls sideways past you. The dream dictionary explains the tipping table as a symbol of loss of control and flying teacups: a need for retreat, as all good warriors do.  It’s like lining up before a firing squad, teacups flying toward you, breaking against the brick wall behind. Then we come to the magician, the man wearing dark clothing and white gloves. The gleam in his eyes makes

your breathe catch as you struggle to wake: trickery

the dictionary says, beware of this fellow.