Weathering Out by Rita Dove

Weathering Out

She liked mornings the best—Thomas gone
to look for work, her coffee flushed with milk,

outside autumn trees blowsy and dripping.
Past the seventh month she couldn’t see her feet

so she floated from room to room, houseshoes flapping,
navigating corners in wonder. When she leaned

against a doorjamb to yawn, she disappeared entirely.

Last week they had taken a bus at dawn
to the new airdock. The hangar slid open in segments

and the zeppelin nosed forward in its silver envelope.
The men walked it out gingerly, like a poodle,

then tied it to a mast and went back inside.
Beulah felt just that large and placid, a lake;

she glistened from cocoa butter smoothed in
when Thomas returned every evening nearly

in tears. He’d lean an ear on her belly
and say: Little fellow’s really talking,

though to her it was more the pok-pok-pok
of a fingernail tapping a thick cream lampshade.

Sometimes during the night she woke and found him
asleep there and the child sleeping, too.

The coffee was good but too little. Outside
everything shivered in tinfoil—only the clover

between the cobblestones hung stubbornly on,
green as an afterthought . . .

Parsley by Rita Dove

Parsley

1. The Cane Fields

There is a parrot imitating spring

in the palace, its feathers parsley green.   

Out of the swamp the cane appears

to haunt us, and we cut it down. El General   

searches for a word; he is all the world   

there is. Like a parrot imitating spring,

we lie down screaming as rain punches through   

and we come up green. We cannot speak an R—

out of the swamp, the cane appears

and then the mountain we call in whispers Katalina.

The children gnaw their teeth to arrowheads.   

There is a parrot imitating spring.

El General has found his word: perejil.

Who says it, lives. He laughs, teeth shining   

out of the swamp. The cane appears

in our dreams, lashed by wind and streaming.   

And we lie down. For every drop of blood   

there is a parrot imitating spring.

Out of the swamp the cane appears.

2. The Palace

The word the general’s chosen is parsley.   

It is fall, when thoughts turn

to love and death; the general thinks

of his mother, how she died in the fall

and he planted her walking cane at the grave   

and it flowered, each spring stolidly forming   

four-star blossoms. The general

pulls on his boots, he stomps to

her room in the palace, the one without   

curtains, the one with a parrot

in a brass ring. As he paces he wonders   

Who can I kill today. And for a moment   

the little knot of screams

is still. The parrot, who has traveled

all the way from Australia in an ivory   

cage, is, coy as a widow, practising   

spring. Ever since the morning   

his mother collapsed in the kitchen   

while baking skull-shaped candies   

for the Day of the Dead, the general   

has hated sweets. He orders pastries   

brought up for the bird; they arrive

dusted with sugar on a bed of lace.   

The knot in his throat starts to twitch;   

he sees his boots the first day in battle   

splashed with mud and urine

as a soldier falls at his feet amazed—

how stupid he looked!— at the sound

of artillery. I never thought it would sing   

the soldier said, and died. Now

the general sees the fields of sugar   

cane, lashed by rain and streaming.   

He sees his mother’s smile, the teeth   

gnawed to arrowheads. He hears   

the Haitians sing without R’s

as they swing the great machetes:   

Katalina, they sing, Katalina,

mi madle, mi amol en muelte. God knows   

his mother was no stupid woman; she   

could roll an R like a queen. Even   

a parrot can roll an R! In the bare room   

the bright feathers arch in a parody   

of greenery, as the last pale crumbs

disappear under the blackened tongue. Someone

calls out his name in a voice

so like his mother’s, a startled tear

splashes the tip of his right boot.

My mother, my love in death.

The general remembers the tiny green sprigs   

men of his village wore in their capes   

to honor the birth of a son. He will

order many, this time, to be killed

for a single, beautiful word.

NOTES: On October 2, 1937, Rafael Trujillo (1891-1961), dictator of the Dominican Republic, ordered 20,000 blacks killed because they could not pronounce the letter “r” in perejil, the Spanish word for parsley.

from Museum (Pittsburgh: Carnegie Mellon University Press, 1983).

Canary by Rita Dove

Canary

for Michael S. Harper

Billie Holiday’s burned voice

had as many shadows as lights,

a mournful candelabra against a sleek piano,

the gardenia her signature under that ruined face.

(Now you’re cooking, drummer to bass,   

magic spoon, magic needle.

Take all day if you have to

with your mirror and your bracelet of song.)

Fact is, the invention of women under siege   

has been to sharpen love in the service of myth.

If you can’t be free, be a mystery.

from Grace Notes

Flash Cards by Rita Dove

Flash Cards
 
In math I was the whiz kid, keeper
of oranges and apples. What you don’t understand,
master, my father said; the faster
I answered, the faster they came.

I could see one bud on the teacher’s geranium,
one clear bee sputtering at the wet pane.
The tulip tree always dragged after heavy rain
so I tucked my head as my boots slapped home.

My father put up his feet after work
and relaxed with a highball and The Life of Lincoln.
After supper we drilled and I climbed the dark

before sleep, before a thin voice hissed
numbers as I spun on a wheel. I had to guess.
Ten, I kept saying, I’m only ten.