Me and You

I know you to the tips of your toes,

little sprite, you spry, wiry,

conniving little imp, born to me

by laboring in the raw of the morning.

Born to me again each time you

turn your hip against me, nose in the

air, with the airs of a teenager, be you

only seven.

Little one, hair flying in all

directions, I know not only your

body but your mind as I see you

calculating just what it would take.

I know you like water knows to

turn ice when it’s cold. Like

caterpillars spinning cocoons in the

first ray of summer. Me and you,

we sometimes peanut butter and

spun honey while other times

horseradish and pistachio ice cream.

You know me too. Can catch me

in any mistake I make. Can herd me

over against any fence I build. Can

catch me at my own game time and again.

Me and you will never end although

today it may seem like it. But we

will come through this like all other

days, this day when you wish to fly

away from me like a butterfly unfolding

wet wings from its cocoon. So soon

you yearn to let go from me. So tight

I hold you fast.

Copyright 2008 Maia Twedt

Cat in the Sill

The cat in the sill looks at me

with disdain. I notice it only because

its stare is piercing and because I love her.

I love her for her original way of

swishing her tail in my face as she

leaves me still in the middle of stroking

her. She knows when to call it enough.

She had a sister once. I did too. The

cat sister was known for drinking

drips from the faucet. The human

sister is known for what she omits

from conversations, whole gaps in the

story. It is not that way with cats.

They don’t even begin the conversation

at all. Simply a gaze will do.

So it should maybe be with people.

They talk too much, do they not?

I know my incessant prattle has scattered

you already. I know I think too much

about cats and too little about what

really matters. But my cats do not

mind me for overlooking the obvious.

They do not need me either to stop talking

or to start. They disdain me either way.

I could stop here, but I would not have

gotten to my main point. My main

point is this: my cat closes its eyes

at just the point where the river crests

and the ivy has overgrown the kitchen.

She simply blocks it all out. Let the

sleeping cat lie, it tells me. And I do.

I would not bother it with something

so minimal. I would simply let it go.

And I do. Really, I do.

Copyright 2008 Maia Twedt

The River Crests

The river crests after the danger has receded

from my house on the hill, overlooking the

weeping in among the trees, the once-solid

valley all mushy and smelly now. I saw the

whole thing happen, refusing television

images for those outside my picture window.

I could not be bothered with the world’s

trivia when my story loomed in large view.

I even saw the family in the canoe laden with

photograph albums and birdcages. I may have

even heard the bird singing in the watery chaos.

I await the return of my own dove with the olive branch.

I cannot leave this picture window to tend to the backyard.

The wisteria grow like weeds,

twining in around my window sill, crawling in

my kitchen like a snake. I wouldn’t know. I haven’t

eaten for days. Nothing even smells good

around here, putrid, gaseous odors filling every

pore of my body.

There is an element of just revenge. It was right

at the moment that I had come into some wisdom.

It had been like cracking a code, knowledge that

had been their prior to its discovery. Sort of like

how a magician makes you believe the rabbit

was never there in the first place.

In discovery there is loss, as all good explorers know.

There may come a point where all knowledge is

overturned, like rocks. Where will we be then? The

watery chaos spreads wider.

I see it returning now, just now! It has found the branch,

tucked in between its beak. It is just as the old story

is told, flown into my ark, the harbinger for future stories!

What celebrating there will be. I will call down to the

valley to announce the truce of the gods. I will hail

the family in the canoe, the singing bird. We shall hold

a party here, on dry land. We shall all turn merry

once again, in time.

Copyright 2008 Maia Twedt

journey

journey with me won’t you

come to the edge of the water

out past the cliff, down by the

shore

won’t you explore with me

like a spelunker a cave, the

journeyers the wave

each one piling on the other

begging to be known

with the body,

all of it, wet and wild,

deliciously cold and

slippery with seaweed

dangling from our toes.

You know there is harmony

in rhythm. You know there

is cosmic sequence in their

order, wave after wave.

You know you will rise and fall

with each breath it takes, the sea

so mysterious in its darkness out beyond

the horizon. Come, see. Come, see

for yourself. Come, sea.

Copyright 2008 Maia Twedt

Summer 08

Summertime drips cool along

my kitchen floor, barefoot all the while

and little gravel pits between my toes.

I know that times like these come

few and far between, when lilacs are

in full bloom and you have time to smell them.

It never comes this high, you say.

And so I stand there, glibly sniffing

all morning in the sandy dirt, barefoot.

You knew me in a different time, when the

same scent yielded to a different fortune.

You turned the corner only to find me stuck

in one place. My fortitude was ingratiating,

you’d complement with attitude. I never knew

the levy would break in this exact place.

I never knew that you would see in me the

clues that you had left for another person for another

era. The 500 year flood plain meant nothing to me.

So much to lose. So much to lose.

I wouldn’t know what I would set on the curbside these

days. Old photographs, even the ones that weren’t

destroyed by water. And lilac blooms, the ones that were

tall enough to live. I am tall enough to live. You never

knew me when I wasn’t. You can’t mistake me

for who I had been before. It is always the case

that the present changes the future. Don’t marvel

at that, dumbly.

So it shall continue. The standing straight, keeping my

head high above the fray, even when it has all receded.

Don’t come to find me now in my despair. I do not

want to know you in this way.

Copyright 2008 Maia Twedt

Angie

It’s the day she lost her imaginary friend Angie.

That day, that day in June, chill of

spring flinging itself onto its bed of

prairie flowers and so winsome was her

look when she declared,

Angie died. She’s dead.

And returned calmly to her dolls.

We had lived with her for

three long years. Held teas with Beady,

the imaginary friend of the

imaginary friend. That damp day

in the campground we got the

news. Smoke smells trail in my sweatshirt yet.

A call of despair, the loons confirmed it.

Angie, they cooed from across the lake.

From the source of the Mississippi River,

those few stones holding it in place quivering

in the flow of cold water.

Angie, Angie they call. Haunting, is it

not?

So, we remember you fondly

you wisp of memory you gazelle

of the forest you laugher you lover

you mother you child you friend. You

future, you life lived, you ending.

Angie.

Hard Rain, revised

Silky hand cradles her face in the night. Skin pulled tight, white

as a clamshell radiating light against the dark ceiling.

Fear on her countenance, a billboard

on the highway. It’s clear we all know.

Despite everything, endurance mounts against the odds.

A climber looks up, up, making

firm decisions about footing. One touch of the ground

after the other. From the heavens,

marbles crash to the ground, a thousand

bounces of glass. Variegated sparkles break

sun streaks into pieces and the effort is intense.

It’s the sound of hard rain that won’t let up.

The event pierces the hold of tradition

tied in square knots behind her back.

Abruptly, the soft hand pulls away, even as her gaze holds

ever skywards.

Hard Rain

Silky soft hand cradles her face. Skin pulled tight, white

as a clamshell. Fear on her countenance, a billboard

on the highway.

Endurance mounts. A climber looking up, up, making

firm decisions about footing.

Marbles crash to the floor, a thousand

bounces of glass. This spell breaks the hold

of tradition tied in square knots against her back.

The sound of hard rain that won’t let up. Abruptly

the soft hand pulls away, even as her gaze holds

ever skywards.

Dedicated to Grandma Petersen

dedicated to my late grandmother,

Ardis Petersen

Lost, indeed, but also found

in that space that lies fallow. One

senses an absence more powerfully

than presence. Gone you are,

Oldemor. Gone Great Grandma.

Gone Mother, aunt, sister, friend,

cousin. Never again to see

your wide hips spread at the vanity

bench as you spray your puffy

coiffure with aeresole hairspray. Never

to listen to you stir your cocoa so

loudly. Never to witness a twinkle

in your eye when you correct my grammar.

Never to see your half worked

cross word puzzles lying atop your type-

writer. Never again to be

beaten by you at Scrabble.

And in these gaps, rises something new

in my longing. An uncovering in myself of

that which parallels who you were. A

blessing billowing out from a faceless

place of unknowing, deeper than flesh.

Deeper even than flesh.

Copyright 2008 Maia Twedt

Unloading

Yowser! for the wrecks of ruins where
I lay a treasure trove away to rest
atop abandoned cloaks with care,
the raw remains to fest-
er in the trunk of sinning junk
what never more could be restored
except to those who bide by muck.
I point to wisdom of the lore
which casts rare pearls out to the swine.
Pour out the wine
o’er coals of yesterday.
Come walk away.

Copyright Maia Twedt 2008

All I had was the snapshot, a peephole into
the crowd, hand held high in the air
Click!
Yet did it grasp the energy of the moment
even in its singular two dimensional
(read: flat) way.
I look into it and see something new
each time, more like a moving
kaleidoscope than a photograph.

Time was, I saw the snub-nose little boy
vomiting in the background.
Time was, I saw peonies in full bloom.
Time was, I saw him, yes him, even heard him
bellowing out his message of hope for our
country.
Time was, a sentiment of patriotism overcame
me and I said a prayer for our world.
Just in looking at it, over and over again.

The day I saw that future president I will know in new ways every time.

Laundry

Laundry piles,
whites ready to sparkle; coloreds
separated and proud to stand apart.
Towels off in their own mound,
competition in their own rights.

Laundress approaches with resistance.
Towels look daunting. More than
one load, for sure. Whites, dotted
with spots need special care. She runs
the water hot.

Reaches for the bleach, notices a coin
from a pocket. 1972. Her birth year.
The war had just ended, her uncle
back with PTSD. Her mother had
done his laundry with care, scrubbed
all the stains. In the end, it really
did not matter. They say a car
hit him by accident, but even a
young child can read between the lines.

Back to the coloreds, holding their own.
Conferences for the stripes. Meetings
for the polka dots. What to do with the
Guatemalan overalls which are sure to
bleed. Fingers the coin and sets it in
a little blue jar on the laundry shelf.
This may be the reward of the day.

Jim

Hey Jim
you don't know my name, do ya, ya
bastard with bifocals. Ya think ya
knows me cause we're both white
living in this neighborhood, this
neighborhood crawling with DY-
VERSIT-EE. All these people
different than us, me and you,
y' old fart, and me a young punk.
Ya'd think we growed up together
the way ya talked, as if it was me and
you against the world.
Those hoodlums, ya called 'em. All
those who don't look like us, white
as ghosts we are.

Hey Jim. I got news for you. Ya
don't know me at all. Ya don't know
where I'm going or where I been any
more than you know the streetperson
outside your store. Ya may know
my latest hardware need, and I still
may buy your sandpaper and tack
cloths but that's where it ends.
Don't lump me and you together
no more. Jim.

Hoolah Dancers

They called us the hoolah dancers.

We were young then, abrasive,

sucking cigars in between shows.

We paint our bodies with henna.

I always paint a rising phoenix that my

grandma taught me to do, practicing for

hours on my brother’s back. Our eyes are

painted too. We look haughty, and we

are. We are the cat’s meow.

So many years ago that was now.

Now my breasts sag, and my limp,

pronounced. I can only dream the steps

I took, which I do over and over. In my

dream I take the stage with vigor and

all the dancers watch my steps to

mark time. I am front row, and always will be.

When the nurses come in to take my

blood pressure, I hum a few bars and

sway my legs to show them my moves.

I want them to remember who I am.

I am a hoolah dancer.