a bit about a woman

in the first third person

I shy away from bios and blurbs because they tend to be written in third person and I feel witless talking about myself as she. But I've been asked for bits of bio mostly for publishing purposes. I tend to say: I'm a pagan, liberal, tarot-reading, vegetarian, divorced, dimpled, capriquarian teacher and poet who currently lives in South San Francisco and is continually impressed with how a day can be filled.

Until my early thirties I was an elementary school teacher and librarian. That career ended in 1993 after the second of two car accidents. Nowadays I write, journey, read mysteries, maintain my back and neck, teach a weekly tarot workshop, visit, play, host a writerly chat on aol, work a few hours a week for my brother's business, and take plenty of time just to be still. After turning forty in January of 2002, I began to see my life more as descending than ascending, and am amused and calm on this side of the hill. I live more intentionally now. Laugh and cry more easily and often.

My full name is Marianne (my father's mother's name) Ruth (my mother's mother's name) Wade. Nice to meet you.

some of my poetry

VELVETEEN

My skin is not so pretty anymore
having lost the elasticity
and silkiness of youth;

the back of my hand
wrinkles
when pushed together,
holds the wrinkle a moment
when I let go.

I unfold my roadmap face
in the morning mirror;
tiny lines speak to me
of time
and laughter.

When I un-
dress my patchwork body
before my lover's eyes,
scars speak to his caress
of challenge
and transition.

Soft, he says,
velveteen.

He reads me in braille,
while I smile the logic
of the Skin Horse:

I have become real
life having marked me
with its kiss.



**********


FREECOMING

Each of three butterflies
hit the windshield
with a soft thud,
tempera fanning
out and up
along the curve of glass.

They'd flown past
orange-vested prison workers
to hurry their resurrection
against my speeding.

Guarded by rifle-bearing bookends,
the orange vested workers
(less free than butterflies)
bent and rose
to gather trash along the highway.

I entertained the image
of a body flung in joyful freedom
against my passing windshield
just to embrace the feel
of being outside the box--

orange and red fanning up and out
against the curve of glass.



**********


BYRGAN FOR A RACCOON

Sister, why did you climb the high gray hill
and fold your black hands around the air;
ferns would be a better bed than gravel.
Sister, why did you climb the high gray hill
where no rivers flow? Did the traffic above
sound like chuffs that said come up come up?
Sister, why did you climb the high gray hill
only to fold your hands around the air.



**********


DIVINING MOMENT

O'ele'n strings and native flute
retreat and advance, race five centuries
from Xpoul de Colon
to dance in my ear
while I shuffle and fan, shuffle and fan.

Cards close to the censer
inhale the sage, draw in
to cleanse each before casting.

Face-up to tell the tale,
I trace the cross and up the side,
"this covers you this
crosses you, beneath, above
behind, before"
each a story
and part of the story;

through it
around it

the sage and music dance.



**********


CURIOUS IMAGO

Chamomile oil
the shade of summer grape
would in flower brew a tea of calm,
so I smooth it on my skin
calmly.

Along with the slide
of oil in my palm
comes the voice of zen Darlene
who Wednesdays sends her mantra
across a pool of wounded people:

"One knee floats up
then comes
down
the other knee floats up
then comes
down;
large circles with the arms
breathe. Breathe."

The apple-petal scent of oil
brings me back to the air
my room
the heaviness of land
and the moth who follows moth
after moth--days all summer

of moths.

I flick them away from
closet knits and cotton, but
take great care; I can't bear the
dry dust on my fingers
when one dies. The daily flut of wings
gentle landing near my pillow
tells me of transition, while
various bodies post-transformation
avoid the bulb to bat at me;

days all summer
moths
with no wingcode to tell me
of my changes.

Only this oil
this skin
this candle
the beat of wings

my knees floating up
and coming down.



**********


CAESURA

Sisters, sing with me an elegy
for our mother's fallen mind,
and bring out cinnamon oil
to dot mandalas on her hands.
We'll stitch muslin, plant iris,
and dust the heavier frames
looking for our faces in pictures of her;
we can pretend her leather skin
will soon pale to sepia,
and decide what to bury her in.

Sing an elegy with me sisters
as we store the muslin and bulbs.
Step with me where the woods
smell of moss and celery
and are dressed in lichen and vine;

we will need to go on dancing
around the woman with mother's face
the one who works her garden,
plays her Steinway, who delights
in pinochle and apple pie,
who laughs her sweet bray.

And mother will wonder who we are
and mother will wonder where we live
and she'll sing of us each by name.



**********


MAPPING

Beeswax sputters under the wick
lit by a man's last match.
He writes of solitude and sacrifice,
how his wife's face had fit his palm.

He wonders how big his sons are,
if the oldest has left for Campeche.
He wonders if his garden has faded
if the limes have sweetened,
and if the ax swung to kill him
will sound like a laugh
or the wind
or weeping.

The feathers near his candle
point to the cave wall, tell him
to store his books and curling stones
and emerge in late November.

He knows a blade is honing.
He knows his family will set out tapas
and lay trails of marigold to his grave;
the molé will be rich with cocoa and chilies,
and the secrets of southern nuns.



**********


FIRST AND AGAIN

Hip to hip in stride
I used to slide my hand into
the back pocket of his jeans;
I would smile
to feel him
walking.

I would later lay my
cheek along his thigh
and watch wrinkles go smooth,
grin at the newness of
twitch and jump.

My breasts were never again as firm
or held with such fascination,
no future set of fingers
was ever so young or held me so fully.
Never would another mouth
be first to whisper
beautiful, beautiful.

And in the parade since
I've tossed my hat timeless high
to watch it fall,
or be caught and
later let go.
And always my hands
are left two and ten only.

Today I heard an old man
muttering "si, pero . . .pero"
and surprised myself
at wanting to again
toss my hat
fill my palm
and hear someone whisper
beautiful, beautiful.


**********


GNOMON

Bring me a bowl, Lewis,
the marble one is best.
My mind has risen up
like a shrimper's cloud of gulls
to dive and scream, feed on itself;
into the mortar's oval
will go the mental clutter.
We'll make a paste of almond
ochre and umiboshi plum.

Hand me the brown bottles, Lewis,
of geranium and eucalyptus
so we may sink into oiled water
and revel in the echoed light;
revelry holds up a quieting finger
to the loud breath of thought.

Move the candle to the left, dearest,
it's made a halo around your head.

Let me bring you a towel, Lewis,
the scented one embroidered
with Los Alamos lemon trees.
I'll brush away the bathwater
and settle the linen on your hips;
by the time our breathing has
made a shadow on the tile,
I'll have put all the words aside
and let my mind ease into this
just this, just my hand
my hand rising
and falling
in the echoed light.


###

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