Louise M. Kennelly
Return to the NC Artist Grant
Award Recipients for 1997-98
She doesn't have the memory of sheep,
she's got sheep, their molars grinding in the grass,
their heavy wool all grown back.
The branches here are groaning with green-appled weight.
Look down. Wash the dishes.
She doesn't have the memory of fishing,
she's got a pond, she’s got inky earth full of worms,
she's got flopping bass and perch
to be caught and cooked and eaten.
Catch nothing. Lose your bate because you can’t stand it anyway,
because it’s too much like using up luck.
She doesn't have the memory of chickens,
she's got red and pepper chickens,
some pretty as women, scratching in a patch.
She's got eggs to search for in funny places.
Break a few. Fine. Walk in a line, contain yourself.
She doesn't have the memory of ivy,
she's got ivy growing into the kitchen
and a window where she watches
bluebirds feeding on berries.
Okay. Be still.
She doesn’t have a memory of the barn,
she's got the barn, the wide beams weightless as birds.
She cleans the wool there and climbs the hay,
she lets out a hawk caught in the birch bark canoe.
Quiet now. Move carefully.
She doesn't have the memory of steam trains,
she's got a steam train calling,
steam waving over the trees,
and crickets that answer all night.
Reign yourself in, in case it's true:
no one gets away with being happy.
Northwest Review
Material
What if heaven is more senses?
The algae in the pond there has more lime.
Angels press hips against hips even deeper.
Eyes at the end of everywhere.
Say heaven makes the salted skin more bitter;
water there is wetter; feathers sharper;
your breath more rotten than ever;
the slick of an orange fish and its fungus
slimier than seaweed ever was.
Oh, and the earth there is grittier -- the smell of it holds more loam.
Say I'm an angel and I can taste what I touch,
so that petting a duck is a drink of oil.
There are new senses, there's flighing
which is tubs in your chest (a thing's tone)
and a ball of glow in your guts (its value).
You can hear the crack
of a leaf in a hundred places.
You can hear the density of a dog
burying a bone with its nose.
Your dreams intensify in proportion to reality.
Say we agree -- all disclosures beat first through
horses, harbors and trees here on earth.
Imagine then how much angels know,
or the taste of the iceberg gin breaking over their teeth.
Abiko Quarterly
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