by Alice Walker
An even
Steel.
She blushes much
& talks
Of passion.
It cannot be
For the bourgeois
Husband
I never
Liked.
I thought life
With him
Had killed
The wild-haired girl
I knew.
But no.
There she is.
There she goes.
Blushing.
Eldering.
I too talk
Stunned
Of love
Passion
Grace of mating
At last
With
My soul’s
Valiant twin.
Oh youth!
I find
I do not
Have it in
My heart
To let
You stumble
On this curve
With fear.
Know this:
Surprise alone
Defines
This time
Of more than growth:
Of distillation
Ripeness
Enjoyment
Of being
On the vine.
Thanks for the Garlic
Thanks for the Garlic
For Susan
Thanks for the garlic,
I think I’m going
To plant
It now
Not wait
For spring.
The bulbs are
So fresh
And white
Their skins
So tight.
I love it
That you did
Not want to send
Them in anything
That would
Crush
Them. Though
Crushing
Is likely
Surely
To be
Their offspring’s
Fate.
That you waited
To find
The perfect
Box.
Do you understand
How like you
This is?
There they sit
A smartly demure
Row
On the counter
Near the door
That leads
To the beginning
Of their future
Lives;
Fiery at heart,
You say.
Four hardy
Garlic
Souls
Unrepentant
Of their inner
Flame
Serenely
Awaiting
My gardener’s
Pleasure
Of time
And place
Unabashed
By whatever’s
To come
Cool
As nuns.
The New Man
You are the kind
Of man
Who makes
Me think
I want
A husband
Someone
To warm
My feet
At night
& who loves
To give me
Shoulder
Rubs
Someone
Who likes
To kiss
My fingers
And
My neck.
You do not
Say
Appalled:
What! You’ve made love
To other
Women?
You say
Instead:
All your life
You wanted
Your sisters
Your mother
& women everywhere
To be
Happy.
You do not say:
What is that
Weeping
Stranger
Doing
Sleeping
Late
At your house
Again?
You say:
Do you need
Help
With this one
Too?
Can I go for
Fresh water
How about
Food?
What Will Save Us
The restoration to the cow
Of her dignity.
The restoration to the pig
Of his intelligence.
The restoration to the child
Of her sacredness.
The restoration to the woman
Of her will.
The restoration to the man
Of his tenderness.
My Friend Arrived
For June
My friend arrived
Heartbroken
But wearing
Fresh
Smiles
As she unpacked
Bags
& furniture
Too
From the back
Of a white
Convertible.
Her presence
In our house
Although
On
So distant
A floor
You nor I
Ever
Ventured
Near it
Caused you
To feel
Our house
Was
No longer
Your home.
O husband mine
If you thought
I would forsake
Even one
Friend
For you
No matter
How crazy
You were
Mistaken.
The key to my heart
I give back
To you
The key
To
Your house.
Dead Men Love War
Dead Men Love War
Dead men
Love war
They sit
Astride
The icy bones
Of
Their
Slaughtered horses
Grinning.
They wind
Their
Pacemakers
Especially
Tight
Like Napoleon
Favor
Green velvet
Dressing
Gowns
On the
Battle
Field.
They sit
In board
Rooms
Dreaming of
A profit
That
Outlives
Death.
Dead men
Love war
They like to
Anticipate
Receptions
& balls
To which
They will bring
Their loathsome
Daughters
Desolation & decay
They like
To fantasize
About
The rare vintage
Of blood
To be
Served
How much company
They are going
To have.
Thousands of Feet Below You
Thousands of feet
Below you
There is a small
Boy
Running from
Your bombs.
If he were
To show up
At your mother’s
House
On a green
Sea island
Off the coast
Of Georgia
He’d be invited in
For dinner.
Now, driven,
You have shattered
His bones.
He lies steaming
In the desert
In fifty or s
ixty
Or maybe one hundred
Oily, slimy
Bits.
If you survive
& return
To your island
Home
& your mother’s
Gracious
Table
Where the cup
Of lovingkindness
Overflows
The brim
From which
No one
In memory
Was ever
Turned)
Gather yourself.
Set a place
For him.
Living off of Isolated Women
Living off of isolated
Women
Is the easiest
Work
In the world.
Tell them
You climbed
The mountain
Just to see them.
Tell them their wisdom
Means the moon
& the stars
To you.
Tell them
Their money
Buys
Them more
Of this.
They Made Love
They made love
On the altar
Of the church
In which
She received
First Communion.
It was the middle
Of the night
An old
Almost blind
Aunt
Best friend of
Her ancient
Grandmother
Happened
To drive
Past.
The bride in
Process
Her long gown
Crushed into the
Flowers
On which she lay
Rose
To go out
& talk
To her.
While the groom
In regal tux
Washed her hands
In the holy water
Laced with
Champagne.
It is a ceremony, she explained
To the old woman
Who seemed
Relieved
To believe her.
It is
A wedding.
It is an honest
Way
To become
Married
To
The church.
To Be a Woman
To Be a Woman
To be a woman
Does not mean
To wear
A shroud;
The Feminine
Is not
Dead
Nor is she
Sleeping
Angry, yes,
Seething, yes.
Biding her time;
Yes.
Yes.
Thanksgiving
Everything that
Has welcomed
You
Has paid
A price.
You want now
To play
With dolphins.
Your excuse:
They think
They want
To play
With
You.
The Last Time I Left Our House
The last time I left
Our house
You were sitting
On the stoop
Smiling.
Your new girlfriend
Had decked
You out
In brand-new
Khaki shorts
A rosy
Peachy
Shirt
& stout
Intrepid
Sandals.
Your wavy
Hair and
Wavering eyes
Bespoke
A forlorn
Anticipation.
Not for me
For us
Would
You have
Dressed
This way
Or taken
A precious weekend
Off
From work.
I am on my way
Somewhere too
My companion
No lover
An enormous
Milkmaid
Who has promised
To drag
Me
Bleeding
Through the armpits
& groin
Of lower
Europe:
Yugoslavia,
Turkey,
Crete.
The house that
We have
Made
For us
Is perfect.
I turn,
Passing your
Blindly
Smiling
Face
& see its
Grandeur
How it rises
Behind us
Serene &
Granite
Like
A cliff.
In a flash
I see how you
Could duck
The sharklike woman
Zooming
Even now
Toward the entrance
Of
Our street.
How I could
Tell the huge
Milkmaid
I do not care
To see
The sights
That she discerns
My bloody
Internal
Landscape
Is enough.
I picture us
Suddenly
Remembering
Our life
& who indeed
We still are
Waking from
This awful trance
In time
To stop
The inexorable
Flow
Time turned
Suddenly liquid
Though glacial
Slow.
I see you rise
I
Smiling myself
Now
Take your
Hand
As we go
Backward
Through
Those ornate
Massive
Doors
That
Reminded us
Of eternity
And cost
Us so much
To refurbish
To repair.
We back in.
Toward bedroom
Or kitchen
Parlor floor
Or den
Or toward
Those prismed
Bay
Windows
We loved
That almost
Faced
The bay.
Backing in.
With nothing
To say.
I Loved You So Much
I loved you
So much
That when
You left
It took
A lot
To keep me
Alive.
Prayer helped. And giving
Myself over
To emptiness.
Years later
I sit
On this
Beach
Not far
From an old
Hawaiian
Kahuna
Who teaches
All and sundry
How to clean
Their bowels.
Don’t
Hold on
To the Old
Stuff, flush it out
She says
Leis to her
Ears
Perched
Like a diva
On her bright yellow
Porch.
I gaze
Thankfully at the sea
Time’s most faithful
Clock
Amazed
That e
very trace
Of that
Old pain
Your leaving
Stuffed me
With
Is washed
Clean.
Winning
The smallest child
Understands:
Anyone who terrorizes us
Is a terrorist;
Anyone who steals from us
Is a thief;
Any one who loves
Has won.
Falling Bodies
On September 11, 2001, several domestic planes were hijacked; the planes were then used as bombs—flown into the World Trade Center in New York City and into the Pentagon, in an attempt to destroy them. The attack on the World Trade Center destroyed the World Trade Towers, two of the tallest buildings in the world. As the towers burned, people were seen leaping from their windows.
Falling Bodies
He told me
Some of them were holding hands
Leaping from
The flaming
Windows.
To these ones
Leaping, holding hands
Holding
Their own
I open
My arms.
Everything
It is
Necessary
To understand
They mastered
In the last
Rich
Moments
That
They owned.
There is no more
To learn
In life
Than this:
How to
Love and
How not to miss
To waste
The moment
Our understanding
Of this
Is clear.
We are
Each other’s
Own
Near and far
Far and wide
(Even if we leap
Into loving
In such haste
It is certain
There will remain
Nothing of us
Left.)
Consider: The pilot
& the
Hijacker
Might
Have been
Holding
Hands.
Those who wish
To make
A war
Of this
Will never believe
It possible.
But how enlightenment
Comes
To others
We may never
Know
Or even
