Guardian Angels

Arms like wings reaching out;

The span of their love embracing the sky
the way they must embrace each other.


Their spirits fly in patterns
like birds migrating to a warmer climate.

They send signals to one another
for directions to the next generation,

knowing they will return.


Even winged creatures are rooted to the earth


that once released them.


They whisper their love in thousands of breaths,



creating winds that carry weight and water,


pushing rivers into mountains


and mountains into rivers,


turning the sun into the moon

and the moon into the sun,


Dispersing seeds into the earthen flesh


that is our bodies.

The nakedness of the world


is fertile ground for this nourishment.

As a butterfly seeks the center of a flower
and our feet sense the molten core of the earth,

so our hearts reach out


to touch the opening

in the mind of God.

Now I Am A Woman


A shooting pain, here

behind my eyes

inside my nose

at the back of my throat.

Shifting fires...

in my belly!

-Where. Show me where.

I have told you,

beneath the weight of my arms

in the palms of my hands,

the soles of my feet,

Where I imagine

a black box

heartless

and void.

My pulse shortens

as I lie in mother’s bed,

but still I feel it

down my back, up my legs

in my thighs.

Sometimes there is a darkness

there are moments of darkness,

when I feel nothing at all.

* * *

Playing in the sand

on the street

I know this is my land

this is my heat

on which my father’s men

my mother’s women

have strived against defeat.

Jumping into the air

lifting on amber wind

my legs shown bare

I come back down again

stomping the earth

that knows my worth,

The dust covering me

lithe and free.

Jumping rope with my sisters

who hold the ends silently

shifting on feet full of blisters.

I let my skirt fly above my knees,

as they wrap their skirts closely

around their softer bodies.

They are much too tame,

saying they will not enter

in my tomboy games.

'We were already

bathed in the Nile'-they said.

'Given dresses and jewels

gifts and glory.

Just wait awhile;

before you are wed

you too will know these days

when you shall receive such praise,'



-in a back room

young legs opened wide

where others have cried

destroying their pride.

They did not tell me to hide

would not confide

how they had died

somewhere deep inside-


They lied.


My eyes closed by women’s fingers

my screams hushed by women’s voices

Soft women, open women

torn from the dust

and purified women.



My arms restrained by men’s arms

my belly cinched by men’s hands

full men, circumcised men

born from the dust and cleansed men.



Playing in the sand

I am covering my belly

I am covering my feet

I am covering my eyes

I am covering my

* * *

I say I am nothing

though I feel all.

A foot brush my ankle,

a hand rush against my side,

my husband’s breath blows through me;

the lashes of weeping women

fall across my face.

(Prompted by the ongoing practice of female genital mutilation where the clitoris, considered to be a masculine attribute, is removed)
EDM

Títeres de sombras Shadow Puppets


Noche Night

y día and day

con o sin with or without

luz light

mi hermana crea my sister creates

vida life

y muerte, and death,

sonido sound

y silencio, and silence,

forma y fantasía, form and fantasy,

cuerpo y alma, body and soul,

presencia y ausencia, presence and absence,

necesidad e indiferencia, necessity and indifference,

crecimiento y decaimiento. growth and decay.

Estructuras Structures

que no pueden proteger that cannot protect

ni soportar; nor support;

mundos sin dimension, worlds without dimension,

verlos, to see,

pero no tocarlos but not to touch

Efímeros Ephemeral

como espiritus. as spirits.

Todovía, en mi memoria Still, in my memory

son tan solidos they are as solid

como sus manos, as her hands,

tan firmes as firm

tan fuertes as strong

tan reales as real

tan verdaderos. as true.

EDM

A letter to poetess Adrienne Rich
concerning her refusal of the National Medal for the Arts

July 3, 1997
“I believe in art’s social presence—as breaker of official silences, as voice for those

whose voices are disregarded, and as a human birthright...I have seen the space for the

arts opened by movements for social justice, (but) Over the past two decades I have

witnessed the increasingly brutal impact of racial and economic injustice in our

country...art means nothing if it simply decorates the dinner table of power which holds

it hostage. A President cannot meaningfully honor certain token artists while the

people at large are so dishonored.”- Adrienne Rich

Dear Adrienne Rich,

I am just one person affected by your words

and your ways.

This was not an act confined to letters.

You have caused me to think a great deal about art and justice:

What role does the U.S. government play?

It acts against

and in support of art,

just as artists support

and act against the U.S. government.

As for the times when artists have acted against the government to

verbally, physically, or literarily protest

the continued manufacturing and implementation of mines,

the increase in defense spending,

the recent immigration law which has forced thousands of potential

citizens from our country,

the exploitation and domination of developing countries,

the “don’t ask, don’t tell” sexual discrimination policy in the military,

all forms of racial, gender, and age discrimination, (due to protestation,

we now have laws protecting the people)

censorship, and any breach within the freedom of speech,

to name just a few.

Critics have asked

“should the government subsidize its own subversion?”

But subversion is the wrong word,

because it suggests conspiracy

sabotage, treason, destruction.

Your written and vocal work

and the act of sit-ins, strikes, picketing, questioning,

and refusing to be silent,

are not destructive;

they are enabling, enlivening, inspiring, encouraging.

Maybe these critics should instead be asking,

“should the government subsidize those who rebel,

who are defiant,

who resist,

who seek revolution?”

Yes, because as artists we seek to create

not destroy.

And because that is what a democracy stands for.

And still I understand why you did not accept this subsidy:

“When men suffer, they become politically radical;

When they cease to suffer, they favor the existing order.”

(Walter Prescott Webb, Plains Historian)

How then could you accept?

Do art and justice exist as one?

As united as music and poetry

as indivisible as freedom is from life,

as inseparable as life from blood,

as blood from the soil?

Or do art and justice

struggle alone,

aware of,

but estranged from the other?

Artists must not get too comfortable.

It is the hunger for growth and change

that keeps us aware and searching for something better.

Does the National Endowment for the Arts

simply provide much needed funds

for the most necessary of endeavors?

Though the NEA fosters the arts and indirectly supports

the causes they uphold and defend,

does it also create an artistic hierarchy

impenetrable by the working masses?

Who is upheld,

who is defended?

I do not know.

I can say that I believe artists are workers

in the spirit of community service,

as much as the nurses, the doctors,

the environmentalists, the teachers,

the welders, the farmers, the cooks, the feeders,

the scientists who seek the future,

as well as the craftswomen and craftsmen

who humbly cultivate their heritage.

As a service to this country,

it is also an artists’s right

to go against the precepts of tradition and heritage,

which can stifle and challenge creative and intellectual pursuits.

One such precept is to humbly accept the gifts we are given

and to graciously say ‘thank you.’



Some gifts are more difficult to accept…

You have showed me

that it is also an artist’s profound privilege and honoras

much as a congressperson or state representativeto

speak for those who would speak,

if only they could.

You have spoken for many.

I find as a young and hopeful writer

that it is my duty to listento

those who do speak and do make a difference.

Thank you for making me think.

Sincerely,

Elizabeth Dañiel Marquis

The Missionary


A young woman travels to

Malaysia, Budapest, Hong Kong, Japan

Russia, Mongolia, India, Pakistan

Africa, Saudi Arabia, Iraq, and Iran…

When she teaches the child, the woman or the man,

she can be spontaneous, and other at times she has a plan.

She wades through several seas

and strides across spawning sands.

She is not afraid to make her mark on any land-

Cuba, Venezuela, Columbia, Paraguay

Ecuador, Brazil, Bolivia, and Uruguay.

For their souls she does not offer to pray.

And it is not their gods she is seeking to betray.

On an average day,

she shows several students the way

to travel to the U S of A,

by teaching them to say

the English alphabet.

It is about what she can give, not what she can get.

She has sold all of her belongings and gone into debt,

She has survived droughts, and floods,

Quicksands and mud,

piranhas,

and gigantic iguanas

earthquakes, volcanoes,

storms of hail, lightning and snow.

31

But most importantly she knows

where to go during times of war.

When she was a young girl, her mother plead,

“Don’t travel the world, you may end up dead.

Foreign countries are dirty, there’s no telling where the people have tread.

Anyway, if you go, how will you wed?

Stay here with me and have a family instead.”

“But the world will be my family,” the girl said,

pushing herself up out of her bed.

“What of the famines, and the wars, all those genocides,

all those poor?” her mother roared.

“I don’t want to hear you talk of traveling anymore.”

But the little girl knew in her heart and her head,

that people were just as likely to end up sick or dead,

hungry or underfed in her own country.

There were just as many weapons displayed on the streets,

As there were racists, hookers, crooks and deadbeats.

There were bombs dropped on buildings and explosives underground.

She could not ignore these screaming facts; her mind was filled with these sounds.

She felt less protected when her roots were forced into the earth,

Than if the ocean carried her roots to places of new birth.

And because she got dizzy standing still,

She longed to swim for her life.

In her conviction to teach English diction,

To the countries of the world, she became a wife.

The woman who has two languages


speaks through two mouths

sees through four eyes

feels two sensations with the stroke of one hand

hears the speech of her peoples

through many ears

and believes that her soul might also be divided.

But that woman has only one heart;

Though her senses may be broken apart,

she is still one woman, indivisible.

And still,

when she feels joy, it is two-fold.

When she feels pain,

she sometimes believes that it is more unbearable

than the pain of a woman of one language.

When she gives birth, it is through two wombs

and that singular child

is as two

formed by the duality of his mother.

* * *

55

When she rises, she rises twice.

When she falls, she falls with the weight of two women.

When she dreams,

she prefers to do away with language altogether,

so that she can rest with silent visions of her life,

without names

without nouns

without words.

When she recalls the dream upon waking

she fears that she will derive two separate meanings.

The woman who has two languages

believes in two gods,

one who walks by her side,

and another who looks down upon her

from such a great distance.

But these are the same god,

and she knows that her languages can be as much the same.

One to embrace and retreat inside of,

the other with which to grow and gain experience.

She may speak through two mouths,

but the sentiment is the same.

She thinks with one heart,

and within that heart

her mind struggles to come together.
EDM

 

Her Poems Were Her Children

For Olga Cabral-who said she never had any children

Her poems were her children,

delivered through the palms of her hands,

bodies wound through the womb of a pen,

guided to the tip of a pencil.

She let them leave her,

let them dull her sharpened edges

Her children have skin as black as ink

smooth as graphite;

it is the darkness that dares

to confront the light.

Just as Noah’s wife Namaah,

who wore an apron

sewn with so many pockets

to collect the seeds

of all the plants and trees,

This daughter

gathered the darkness

in the pocket

of her seamless heart

Until it was time

to deliver.

Exposed to the light,

her children come alive

and continue to grow

in our eyes,

And yet they live

entirely on their own.
EDM