The Wind Cried Mary
When Hendrix coaxed, Are you experienced?
we answered oh, quite contrary.
Only wild meadow grass jazzed in evening light
and the wind cried Mary.
Fringed backpacks, hair free flying, little lambs sure to go,
we left the Midwest,
rake-thin, obsessed, to follow the lovesick wind
crying Mary.
Who waters your green? A woman’s nothing
without a man!
The ocean heaved—go!
but the wind cried Marry.
We picked up brooms drearily sweeping, Jacks-in-boxes
we thought worth keeping.
How do we seem? we asked weeping;
the wind waxed… Merry.
Our bodies gave them their heft, the shape of their songs,
—sweet Jesus, Joseph, and Mary—
why didn’t we leave?
By the same author
Let the Dead Bury the Dead
Surely she would want to hear one final song, something from the Carpathians, something folkloric about flying
Wooden Boards
My father carefully rolls his pant leg up, places his leg between two wide boards. He tells my mother to jump hard on