(104)

104 degrees
at the end of September.
I am antiquing
for gifts,
in blue jeans.
Lately my brain
has been a stew
pot.
I can’t think
what to do,
can’t sort things
out,
potatoes & carrots
tumbling about
in the boiling broth.
If my actions
make sense
or not,
I will be
the last to know.
The day begins
as autumn,
I make my first
soup of the season.
But have to crank
the air-conditioning
up to be able
to eat it.
Indian summer
I am saddened
to know my ancestors
took land grants
of the Chickasaw’s home,
fought them perhaps
in wars.
It’s no surprise,
of course,
just something else
to come right down
to the hard facts
of it.
My grandparents
crossed the river
and never went
back, not even
to claim the land
she inherited.
Land which belonged
to no one,
not even the Chickasaws.

9/30/99