SAILING INTO DARKNESS, ll

SAILING INTO DARKNESS, ll

Maybe it's the way the San Andreas Fault grinds at the coast
or how ropes of sunlight fall on marine haze, or the wind.
Maybe it's the rancher's wife murdered by her husband
who comes to sit among these tombs sprouting small milk teeth
in crooked rows. I hear women whispering inside those trunks
of cypress growing from Manchester to Point Area.
They came here from Canada, Ireland, and Germany,
with high hopes but their dead built cities on this lonely coast.
The wind followed them across oceans, forests and prairies
to the edge of the continent. It licked beneath doors,
between cracks and floorboards, stirring lamp flames
and passion until the air was ablaze.

Like a rotted tooth, a charred headboard with no name
has lost its place in line. Monuments to young girls
spared the grief of motherhood. "Charity is beloved."
Her mother feeling the loss, climbed down to join her.
Piper's mother slipped into the same womb six years later.
Jennie McMullin's twins Paulie and Ellie born and died the same day.
I think, RH negative. Then all the miscarriages.
She quit naming them after that. What more did Samuel want?
At my age, she followed the sixth babe back into earth.
The graveyard dissolves into the silence of blackberries.
Lichen gains a toehold on carved letters.
Mother, beloved father. Infant, unnamed.
How many names for darkness?
The Bishop family, squeezed in four separate plots
between Clays, Munroes and McFarlins--
still search for kin among stones and roots.

If you lie down, snake-like, and listen with your ribs
you can almost hear the earth shift. I say almost--
the way a rattlesnake, blind in summer moult "hears"
with heat sensors and minute vibrations felt through the skin;
strikes blind at anything that comes too close.
Marsh grass whipped into a frenzy catches fire
as sun and sundog slide down the mandarin throat of ocean.
Brazen beauty mark of Venus. Shy, distant Regulus.
Yesterday, Suzanne, who told me the story of the rancher's wife
drove out to the beach. New moon in the old moon's arms.
They found her wearing her best clothes and jewelry--
Not even a note. None of us knew what troubled her.
Tongues of fog lick traces of blue from the sky.
No graves or names to mark the three babies I gave back.
Fingers of wind tangle my hair, invisible ropes tighten,
pulling me toward those gleaming cypress trunks
until the hands of men who planted them are all over me
and cacophony of wind pulls me down into pale earth;
this harvest I never asked for.

1986? or 1987
rev. 6/87,1988, 6/89, 6/91

Garcia River, Point Arena

Notes for SAILING INTO DARKNESS
SAILING INTO DARKNESS, II

Maybe it's the way the San Andreas Fault grinds at the coast
or how ropes of sunlight fall on marine haze, or the wind.
Maybe it's the rancher's wife, murdered by her husband
who comes to sit among these tombs sprouting small milk teeth
in crooked rows. Locked inside those trunks of cypressówhispering women
who came here from Canada, Ireland, and Germany, with such high hopes.
The wind followed them across oceans, forests, and prairies
to the edge of the continent. It licked beneath doors,
between cracks and floorboards, stirring lamp flames
and passion, until the air was ablaze, but it was their dead
who built the cities along this lonely coast.
Like a rotted tooth, a charred headboard with no name
has lost its place in line. Monuments to young girls
spared the grief of motherhood. Charity is beloved.
Her mother, feeling the loss, climbed down to join her.
Piper's mother slipped into the same womb six years later.
Jennie McMullin's twins, Paulie and Ellie, born and died the same day.
Something to do with the blood. Then, all the miscarriages.
She quit naming them after that. What more did Samuel want?
At the age I am now, she followed the sixth babe back into the earth.
Mother, beloved father. Infant, unnamed.
No graves or names to mark the three babies I gave back.
How many names for darkness? The Bishop family,
squeezed in four separate plots between Clays, Munroes, and McFarlins—
still search for kin among the stones and roots.
Lichen gains a toehold on carved letters.
The graveyard dissolves into the silence of blackberries.
Marsh grass whipped into a frenzy, catches fire
as sun and sundog slide down the mandarin throat of ocean.
Brazen beauty mark of Venus. Shy, distant Regulus.
If you lie down, snake-like, and listen with your ribs
you can almost hear the earth shift. I say almost—
the way a rattlesnake, blind in summer moult hears
with heat sensors and minute vibrations felt through the skin;
but strikes blindly at anything that comes too close,
because yesterday, Suzanne, who told me the story of the rancher's wife
drove out to the beach. New moon in the old moon's arms.
They found her wearing her best clothes and jewelry—
Not even a note. None of us knew what troubled her.
Tongues of fog lick traces of blue from the sky.
Fingers of wind tangle my hair, invisible ropes tighten,
pulling me toward those gleaming cypress trunks
until the hands of those men are all over me
and the cacophony of wind pulls me down into pale earth;
this harvest I never asked for.

86-88?

 SAILING INTO DARKNESS, l

I have four versions of this. Clearly I have no idea how to revise it. Perhaps I should turn it into prose? This version in my MS begins with I swear....I have no ecopy of this version