ELEGY FOR WILMA

Along the river in November, thin red canes bend,

bramble of some berry I can’t identify.

Dark brown pods, half a finger’s length,

burst open to show white filaments,

each carrying a nugget at its tip, frail cargo,

half of them gone on the wind.

I notice how each plant finishes the year,

milkweed, motherwort, everlasting pea.

My friend gone on a journey south, down through

Ohio fields, to comfort her twin sister must sit,

by now, at her deathbed, touching warm skin

of a hand that matches her own, halves

of a split egg some seventy years ago—

as the room fills with music, light,

then grays, thickening, only to drain of dark,

come dawn, then starting the cycle again.

Can the native plants along the river, grasses too,

daylilies, tell us anything of foreboding?

When the northeast wind blows, skidding across water,

they bend, and papery capsules crack, quite

predictably, along the seams, rattled seeds

spilling to earth, not knowing the harder part

of winter’s coming. They ready for it as they can,

with dispersal, needing no word for it.

IT WAS RAINING IN MIDDLEBURG

Sideways wind. Sheets of rain. A taxi, lights on.

I struggled out from the station to climb in. The Dutch

sailed by hatless, gloveless, on two wheels, cheeks ruddy.

Stan, there are bicycles everywhere, handlebar bells.

            And people do not wear helmets, reflective gear.

I will call you from the old Latin School. My bed

            there is narrow and wears a green coverlet.

There is a common room. Yogurt and eggs.

Just what you’d hope: a market square nearby

            with flowers, outside tables, umbrellas.

Love walks around, smiling. I have my own two-wheeler,

            a girl’s, blue, with a lock, and saddlebags.

I am far and miss you sometimes—also eager to ride

            to Vlissingen or Veere for lunch.

Windowboxes. Windows decorated with lace. And objects.

            Doors painted bright yellow or green.

A belief in the primary. Stone buildings. A canal.

And people waiting in line when the drawbridge

            rises. Right of way for bicycles.

Good spirits though not yet spring. Flowers about

            to blossom—ones growing from bulbs,

those nuggets gathering power underground:

bluebells, hyacinth, iris, narcissus, snowdrops, tulips.

OLENTANGY ELEGY

1.

Variant names

for the Olentangy River

stone for your knife stream

olentangy

whetstone creek

whetstone river

whitestone creek

2.

Down from Michigan

pass the mosque gleaming white

and gold

in northern Ohio

cross over the Mad River

no variant names

pass by cornfield

cornfield

Do not think Italy

but bean

when you say Lima

3.

Delaware State Park Reservoir built

the year I was born

Did any of us care

about Ohio then?

Washington State beaches rocking us,

tidal, with seawater—

And when did your sister arrive?

4.

We cut up onions, green

pepper,

made do with tomatoes

canned, Marzano ones from volcanic

soil of Italy—

crushed them

took out bags

of frozen corn kernels

blanched, cut off

cobs in late summer

now plump still

Even in winter the thick

corn-veggie soup fragrant

when we walked back from

Mulick Park, sledding

orange disk sliding

matching the full moon

dog’s tail tipped white

waving

goodbye,

last good memory

5.

The Olentangy provides

drinking water for Delaware County

mouth dry these many

months, lips dry, parched

unable to take a sip

6.

Shale to make your knife

sharp

all the better to cut

you with, my dear

names mistaken

olentangy really means

river of the red face paint

7.

What does marriage mean

if not a new

cleaving?

Does she cleave to him?

Maybe you are jealous,

maybe the bars on the windows,

the double locked doors,

maybe the twin dogs

named, adored, make you

jealous?

I only desire

her happiness.

8.

Tensions

The pull in different

directions

early learned competition

hard to trust others

brother and sister love

sister to sister love

mother love

husband love

when our parents die

ground shifts underfoot

9.

Down into Ohio, early October

Sandusky

when light leaves the fields

dark green, green

then a space between the rows

of corn where a person could

slip in and disappear

10.

My sister became a Buddhist

kneeling on the black pillow

in postures of meditation

incense

a holy shrine

visits to hear

the Dalai Lama speak

Why did I make jokes about her

not wanting to kill anything?

Staying over, alone, those many years ago

at her Seattle apartment

fleas feasted all night long

on my ankles, wrists

I bought a can of Raid,

spraying it in bursts

of cloud

I slept secure that night

in my own reasoning

Was I annihilating my sister?

I sprayed the poison

and slept without dreaming

11.

Whitestone creek

Olentangy sharpening knives

And the only white stones

for miles around are graves

Shining white in August’s dark

with crosses, symbols, etched names

gathering rainwater, moss

12.

That time of the fleas

was twenty years ago, in another state

and my sister Christina never knew

First marriages gone, then,

for both of us

Both finding home, the Midwest,

finding our way with new men,

no babies

far from our birth homes

far from our family

13.

How our mother would say, watch out:

I’m on the warpath today

My method was to move

far away, counting the states

between us

14.

Growing up, we possessed rivers, multitudes,

among many children, lively in tents and rooms

Puyallup River near our house

fishing near Commencement Bay

The Satsop River all carefree

summer, floating

And Indian Mary, the last time

camping

I see the campground still

15.

Chris showed me the photo

after the funeral—

Father had already been gone

seven years

Mother in sunlight, eyes closed,

face lifted

Her face glowed

radiant, already heading

to another place

16.

Rivers, creeks, small

tributaries

The headwaters from which

they all come

water will find

a way,

seek a low spot

17.

If you’re finished with gallivanting

around, Mother would say,

If you could take off your glad

rags and get to work—

18.

If we could live in peace

bury the hatchet

sharpen knives and then

slice bread and not each other

If the spell could send

the wicked witch into the forest

forever

19.

For eleven years I watched

one broken tree

that may or may not mark

a boundary of our land

rumor said, struck by lightning

There is not one mark

to prove it

I am noting

its disintegration

20.

Olentangy, the healing source

water brings

people picking up cans, plastic bottles,

trash, rusted oil cans

Water once again riffling,

clear and sweet

Two sisters wading in the water,

feet white as stones

shining through water

And a legend begins,

Midwestern tales of hardwood forests,

yearly renewal

And sometimes the bedrock

dolomite

chert, Chilton, flint

will not allow roots to dig down

on the Maine coast, firs grow forty or fifty feet tall,

on Orr’s Island,

liable to tipping

topsoil thin, they barely hold on

Begin a new legend, if you can--

21.

When Father was dying

(only seventy three years old),

he said no regrets at all

His favorite brother Earl had died

overseas, a jeep accident during World War II

The only thing, he would say,

I wish I’d had a sister.

Patricia Clark is Poet-in-Residence and Professor in the Department of Writing at Grand Valley State University. Author of three volumes of poetry, her newest book is She Walks into the Sea. Another collection, Sunday Rising, is forthcoming from Michigan State University Press in 2013. She has also published a poetry chapbook, Given the Trees, and co-edited Worlds in Our Words: An Anthology of Contemporary American Women Writers. Clark’s work has been featured on Poetry Daily and Verse Daily. She has won the Gwendolyn Brooks Prize twice, Mississippi Review’s Poetry Prize, and has been honored as second-prize winner in the 2005 Pablo Neruda/Nimrod International Journal Poetry competition. Clark's poems have appeared in Atlantic Monthly, Poetry, Slate, Stand, Gettysburg Review, and many other literary magazines.