feathers for my sisters

shells in Olivia's hands;
we would peer into them,
slide our thoughts into their ocellus caverns,
rub at the sand,
rinse,
inspect: wink-eyed against damp light.

stones in Olivia's pockets;
mauve, peach, grey, lined blue and white
or solid black, sometimes porous,
like those from a volcano,
and we imagined their long journey from one continent to another,
how they had sifted along the ocean floor only to find our hands
then our pockets,
now to be forgotten in amongst the shoes on the outside porch.

tears in Olivia's eyes;
taunts as we past the school yard
Roll-roll-livia!
we patted our unkept hair,
our legs numb,
but we were never angry;
we bore the sin of our ugliness with mute apologies.
Next time we would remember to take the trails instead.

scars on Olivia's arms;
as we shoved a fistful of mushrooms into our mouths.
We were either perched on a wet-log behind the school,
or transfixed in the dull glow of a red light bulb,
or pinned in the back seat of a car with our skirts above our thighs
as disgusting digits penetrated soft areas and clawed with dirty nails.
The corners of their mouths harbored remnants of Dorrito chips,
but I was unable to protest. I had become so used to mute apologies.
And maybe we would walk home, in silence, draped in someone else's clothing to keep warm.

remember, Olivia, when at five in the morning
we would shuffle sleep-muted into the van
ice-cream buckets dangled loose on our fingertips
and the dirty rags inside of them softly thudding against the sides
we could hear every small noise on those mornings
and Dad might have trouble getting the engine to start, but then
we would be gunned up the logging roads deep into Mt. Elphinstone
our tongues still like molasses until we jumped out onto the bumpy dirt-roads,
tire-gutted and rain-worn, and the coolness of six o'clock forest air
startled our mouths into motion.
We chattered as we worked, moving in patterns instead of by compass
there were no trails
the branches of the younger trees would get caught in our hair, scrape our scalps,
and we worried that they might split your head open again
like those of the apple tree did, in Stephen's yard.
then Dad would tell us to split up, and we scanned the dense ground
always careful not to step too firmly on the moss
as the mushrooms were growing underneath in small isolated patches.
and if we saw them, we would yell "I FOUND SOME" and every one came running, with their buckets full of white pines, and the cloths now draped over the edges, muddy, and they would
cheer and make the finder feel so proud, and we would get on our hands and knees and carefully ease the pines out of the ground, and rub off the grey, sporous clay at the bottom of their stalks, place it back into the hole and cover the small opening with fresh dirt.

or remember the dresses Mom sewed out of cotton fabric, awful prints, that we had to wear.
and we were sitting in the dining room, which was also a study and an art studio,
where pastel portraits were drawn, and designs copied from books, lies told, faces reflected in the windows, smell of muffins and scones, and Mom's sobs, she prayed alone upstairs while we worked. Not always, just sometimes. Just those times when say the older girls were now in foster homes, or when we were too violent to listen to her, or when she saw some unique aspect of our spirits vandalized by cultural forces and rooted out....
and it was not that he didn't care, it was not that. We found his love in those moments before bed when he shared his favorite books with us, three girls huddled around him in blankets and pillows full of giggles with every new voice he performed, or when he would come home and say "Where's fluffy mouse?" and how he always had a spare knee to sit on, his jeans sticky with diesel fuel and rust. He told us stories of how he had to haul these heavy chains from one side of the sorting ground to another, and how they had dropped one time on his foot but he hadn't sworn like the other fellows would have. he was proud of his Christian virtues, how he had made moral victories in his life that his co-workers were oblivious to. He was proud.

Carmen Joe laughs lightly:
She folds the paper to hide the drawing. We are nervous and excited about the image that lays between the fold. The sun and wool turns our hair to static. I sing to her when I imagine we are scared, but she isn't afraid. Not here, when time does not threaten to ever run into the next hour. Our child's enthusiasm for play undisturbed, and we dream, on the sofa with books, or in the garden. That is where we make magic potions out of leaves and cure the invisible ill. We carry them into our ramshackle huts and give small prayers. Our shacks have hammers and nails, sometimes a rusted saw, some bits of rope, and rusted horse-shoes. OR mud-caked glass jars, and small circles outlined by stones. Carmen sings and sways her arms like we have seen done on Earth Days down by the creek, and I follow. Or we run to the small yellow swing beside the rotting carcass of a family station wagon and fall into the afternoon like we are small feathers escaped from the rigid lining of pillows.