Living the Dream

Once it was said, I walked head down
Eyes cast to the stones that might trip, make me stumble.
Did you hold my hand?
I remember walking on Fall-crisp leaves
Imagining the toe-heel step of my ancestors.
Did you see me then and join me in my crunch?
I walked fifteen miles, stilts of clay,
Cat in a cage and dog on a leash
Through an unknown forest
Rain blind and fearsome yet one step after another.
Did you make a path for me?
I have stepped the hollow hospital halls
Pacing out memories that I must keep
While you sighed your last breaths.
Did you know?
I slid one foot and then the other beneath the empty cradle
Curled my toes and held the air you should have filled.
Did you stand on them?
I have stomped to my own rhythm
Taking steps others feared to tread.
Were you following my best march?
But I remember free-flinging dance steps, running wind-driven
Hands outspread to catch an armful of day’s joy.
Did you want me, then, to walk with you?

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I was a baby ballerina
I know how to point my toes.
I know plie’ and pointe’,
I can walk well turned out.

I was a part-time model
and know the dainty-walk, well.
I know how to swing and move
from the hips down.

I can tramp through the forests,
moccasin’d feet, toe down first,
so as not to disturb the forest
with my movement in and through.

I love to walk barefoot,
feel the sand trickle through my toes
and walk, run and surf without care
as to whether I slip and fall.

I can walk fast.  I dip my head,
focus on the ground instead of problems,
circle round and round
until the anger dissipates.

I can walk slow enough
to hold the arm of my mother
so she did not stumble
and did not feel need to tell her to hurry.

Come walk with me.  You lead.
I will follow.  I am good
at things like that.  Your pace
can be my pace, too.

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If I smelled of fresh fried bannock
and were you hungry,
you would crave my smell.

If I smelled like fish scales
and you knew my art,
you would admire the slime.
If I smelled like Pinesol
and your house needed cleaning,
you would want my hands.

If I smelled of earth
and you loved peonies, like I do,
you would want my hands all over your yard.

If you were my child,
I could smell of breast milk
And you would know me.

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Earth, wind, fire, water, let me be natural.
Patchouli, oil of the East, cousin of the mint,
Sweet, sweet, spicy, woody.  I am
Child of the Forest, let the forest swell
In me, around me.  Warm, rich, alternative
Lifestyle that I lead.  Sensual.

Aromatics, sweet sister, blend
Of jasmine and chamomile, woodsy.
That is me.  I am Artemis, these scents
Proceed me to the places I desire to know
And to people who might care to know me
Tree knows the forest and the forest knows the tree.

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There is a stranger looking back at me these days.
I do not know where this extra skin came from,
Nor from where the brown marks spattered,
Nor how I became round instead of stick-thin.
I do know to what these marks belong,
These curving slices promising a tomorrow;
These faded sad lines of stretching
That gave my babies room; these I know well.
The veins ran up my legs during the thirty-hour push.
Yes, they are dear, those.  Such simple sacrifice.
Things that should be bigger are smaller.
Things that should be smaller are bigger.
I do not understand the necessity of this.
Every wrinkle has a name, a date, and a place.
I can tell you their stories.  They do belong to me.
But who is this that looks back in disbelief?
Is this the measure by which others define me?
Oh, define me dear, please, for I have lived
A life most would die for.  Jesus wept and so have I.

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