Judy Grahn

am I not    olden olden olden it is unwanted. wanting, wanting am I not    broken stolen    common am I not crinkled cranky poison am I not glinty-eyed and frozen am I not    aged shaky    glazing am I not    hazy guarded    craven am I not    only stingy    little am I not    simple brittle    spitting was I not    over over    ridden? it is a long story will you be proud to be my version? it is unwritten. writing, writing am I not    ancient raging    patient am I not    able charming    stable was I not    building forming    braving was I not    ruling guiding    naming was I not    brazen crazy    chosen even the stones would do my bidding? it is a long story am I not proud to be your version? it is unspoken. speaking, speaking am I not    elder berry brandy are you not wine before you find me in your own beaker?

The first four leaders had broken knees The four old dams had broken knees The flock would start to run, then freeze The first four leaders had broken knees ‘Why is the flock so docile?’ asked the hawk. ‘Yes, why is the flock so docile,’ laughed the dog, ‘The shepherd’s mallet is in his hand, The shepherd’s hand is on the land, The flock will start to run, then freeze— The four old dams have broken knees,’ The dog explained. The hawk exclaimed: ‘The shepherd leads an easy life!’ ‘I know, I know,’ cried the shepherd’s wife, ‘He dresses me out in a narrow skirt and leaves me home to clean his dirt. Whenever I try to run, I freeze— All the old dams have broken knees.’ ‘Well, I’m so glad he doesn’t dare to bring his breaking power to bear on me,’ said the hawk, flying into the sun; while the dog warned, in his dog run: ‘Hawk—the shepherd has bought a gun!’ ‘Why is the hawk so docile?’ asked the flock, ‘He fell to the ground in a feathery breeze; He lies in a dumb lump under the trees, We believe we’d rather have broken knees Than lose our blood and suddenly freeze Like him.’ But the oldest dam gave her leg a lick, And said, ‘Some die slow and some die quick, A few run away and the rest crawl, But the shepherd never dies at all— Damn his soul. I’d will my wool to the shepherd’s wife If she could change the shepherd’s life, But I myself would bring him low If only,only I knew how.’

He called her:  golden dawn She called him:  the wind whistles He called her:  heart of the sky She called him:  message bringer He called her:  mother of pearl barley woman, rice provider, millet basket, corn maid, flax princess, all-maker, weef She called him:  fawn, roebuck, stag, courage, thunderman, all-in-green, mountain strider keeper of forests, my-love-rides He called her:  the tree is She called him:  bird dancing He called her:  who stands, has stood, will always stand She called him:  arriver He called her:  the heart and the womb are similar She called him:  arrow in my heart.

She holds things together, collects bail, makes the landlord patch the largest holes. At the Sunday social she would spike every drink, and offer you half of what she knows, which is plenty. She pokes at the ruins of the city like an armored tank; but she thinks of herself as a ripsaw cutting through knots in wood. Her sentences come out like thick pine shanks and her big hands fill the air like smoke. She’s a mud-chinked cabin in the slums, sitting on the doorstep counting rats and raising 15 children, half of them her own. The neighborhood would burn itself out without her; one of these days she’ll strike the spark herself. She’s made of grease and metal, with a hard head that makes the men around her seem frail. The common woman is as common as a nail.

She’s a copperheaded waitress, tired and sharp-worded, she hides her bad brown tooth behind a wicked smile, and flicks her ass out of habit, to fend off the pass that passes for affection. She keeps her mind the way men keep a knife—keen to strip the game down to her size. She has a thin spine, swallows her eggs cold, and tells lies. She slaps a wet rag at the truck drivers if they should complain. She understands the necessity for pain, turns away the smaller tips, out of pride, and keeps a flask under the counter. Once, she shot a lover who misused her child. Before she got out of jail, the courts had pounced and given the child away. Like some isolated lake, her flat blue eyes take care of their own stark bottoms. Her hands are nervous, curled, ready to scrape. The common woman is as common as a rattlesnake.