Pierre Peiret

 

Pierre Peiret

In my blood is a pastor from France,
name of Pierre Peiret. His church
in the Pyrenees was a charity, a school,
an asset to the people of the village.
He preached against ignorance, untruths—
and against the Catholic Church,
against the law.

The king sent dragoons on horseback.
Their muskets breathed fire.
Pierre and his flock hid in high mountains,
the impenetrable forests they knew so well.

Pierre married Marguerite.
She was 18, he was twice that.
The baby was born six months later.
For sin of the flesh, he lost his flock.
A year later, they forgave him.
They needed him.

But the law closed in.
In 1685 Pierre, with Marguerite and child
fled to America
while France lost the Huguenots—
the educated, the literate, the skilled—
while the king kept his ignorance,
his untruths, his power.

Three centuries have passed.
Now in America an orange king
sends dragoons for our neighbors, friends.
Pierre, my blood, whispers in my ear—
Take to the mountains, the forest.
Resist. Or flee.

…..

Image: Cartoon of a French dragoon forcing a Huguenot to sign his conversion to Catholicism. Drawn in 1686.

Drops of my blood flow from the firebrand Pierre Peiret and the lovely Marguerite through their child born of love, Magdaleine, my great (eight times great) grandmother. Many drops, I hope.

Hear me:

April 22, Morning Walk

 

April 22, Morning Walk

Panicky cheeping to my ears.
A dozen ducklings in a storm drain
deep as I am tall
can't climb can't fly can't escape
except down the big pipe.
Mama duck above the drain
stands frantic, flapping and quacking.

So I lower myself
into gloppy gunk over my ankles.
Scoop with my clasped hands
twelve fuzzy wigglers
with underbellies of slime
one by one
and set them above.

Mama duck warns of discipline
as smelly ducklings in a peepy line
follow her to cattails, and gone.

I resume my walk in mucky shoes,
socks stinking of rot.

Had to do it. Right?
Happy Earth Day.  

(And some day, when I’m in the drain
will you do it for me?)

…..


photo by Alexis Fotos

Hear me:

Dear crazy-ass librarian: Thank you

 

Dear crazy-ass librarian: Thank you

for removing book jackets
because, you said,
covers were slick, slipped, took up space,
would get lost anyway
and we nasty children might tear them
but worst of all they sometimes lied

which was asinine, my mother thought
while she volunteered there
so she brought fresh covers home
where I read them
my sister crayoned them
my brother made airplanes of them
and then we cut, we joined
into big collages smelly with paste
until the school fired you, librarian,
after parental revolt
and your replacement wanted
all the covers back.
Oops.

Here, the ragged covers and ever after
please may we uncover new ideas.
May we color each day crayon bright.
May we fly on fancy,
may we connect meanings
to a larger pattern
and then with thanks
may we give back.

…..

First published in I-70 Review. Thank you editors Maryfrances, Gary, and Greg
Note: My mother and the book jackets is a true story. This happened in the 1950s when most books had plain dull hardback binding with colorful paper covers. Nowadays, the hardback binding is often just as colorful as the paper wrappers.

Hear me:

Cathartes aura

 

Cathartes aura

April, three weeks into lockdown
and the phone rings in California.
A doctor in a Manhattan hospital informs us
Janelle has been admitted with Covid-19.
We’re next of kin.  

Atop a fence post outside our window
a turkey vulture hunkers down in the mist,
red-masked as if for virus protection.
Cathartes aura has an acute sense of smell
for ethyl mercaptan, the gas produced
in early stages of decaying meat.
Can it smell New York?

Cathartes means “purifier”
from the Greek word, same root as catharsis.
And aura is also from Greek
meaning “breeze, breath.”

The brave doctor holds an iPad over Janelle
enclosed in a clear plastic womb, Facetime
to say goodbye. She’s barely alive,
low blood oxygen, a white mask over mouth
but maybe we see a wan smile. Maybe not.
We end with “Hope to see you soon”
because we mean it.

On the fence post Cathartes aura
spreads wings to dry like laundry on a line.
Branches sway softly, a puff of pure air.

…..

First published in Califragile. Thank you Wren Tuatha, editor.
Photo by V J Anderson

Note: It’s true. A vulture, in fact about 9 vultures, perched atop a redwood tree outside our house and watched us as we watched “Janelle” breathe her last breaths in New York. And I ache, remembering those times.

Hear me:

Fuel

 

Fuel

Wildfire we escaped
with only the clothes on our backs
and the phones in our pockets

We lost pajamas, photos,
heirlooms, gardens,
love-letters, toothbrush, car—
lost the entire house,
the physical structure of our lives
now ash, now rubble

Lost the piano
but not the song
Lost the pen
but not the poem

Structure of spirit
still stands—

We burn
with a different flame

…..

*The “we” of this poem is not me but the voice of beloved friends and family who lost everything in the LA fires.