Poetry

HOW MADWOMEN SURVIVE
I come from a long line of madwomen and of this, I am proud.
Strong women with determined resiliency,
open minds, and hands that knew no idleness.
A great grandmother who became accustomed
to the whiskey-colored breath of strangers
in order that her children be fed.

A grandmother who captured and killed
the white chickens of neighbors
for the same reason.
And a mother who tried and failed
and tried and failed and tried and failed
and tried and failed to understand the reasoning

behind the lies of men who said they were her lovers.
I come from a long line of madwomen and of this, I am proud.
There is a difference in madness and craziness:
Craziness causes one to twirl and twirl until a great breath sucks
her spirit home leaving her mind and body to laugh on their own.

Madness allows the mind and body to function
while the spirit dances to the heartbeat of the stars.
I come from a long line of madwomen and of this, I am proud.
Women who folded their shame
into the gathers of their pride
wrapped them both around their ankles
and continued to dance, letting everyone know
they were not afraid to dance backward if it meant survival.

I come from a long line of madwomen and of this, I am proud

©2005 from Confessions of a Madwoman

BALANCE
He likes sounds
like trees whispering to each other
like rains gathering to make music
like bells tinkling to remind him how
she likes profound silence
like when the whole world takes a deep breath
and holds it.

TO CELEBRATE NOT EXPLAIN THE MYSTERY
And I heard a voice
a silvery voice wrapped
in secrets of red and purple

telling me to go deep, deep inside myself
deep to the deepest part where the light lay
in the center of the darkness

that it would be here
I would find the celebration
of who I am, why I exist,
where I come from and where I am going

and in this celebration I would find
the explanation that requires no explaining
the knowledge that requires no knowing
the answer that requires no questioning

and then I would understand
and then I would not understand
and then it would not matter.

IN LONDON
Two women asked if I were American Indian.
You look it, they said.

Growing up
I never thought of myself as looking Indian
Although my father and his four sisters
Have always worn skin the color of smooth
Copper and looked through eyes the color
of painted darkness.

Perhaps it is an essence, looking Indian.
Perhaps it has nothing to do with looks at all.

In Paris, no one asked me anything.