Purple Garlic

         sestina in memory of cw

I miss you when I see purple

and white garlic cloves   when I take knife

in hand to peel  and slice and mince   I remember

the hot day you showed me how   patient

and amazed that I was a woman  over

thirty years old and I had never cooked fresh garlic

I miss you when I hold my one kitchen knife

ready to chop onions shallots leeks   what I remember

from our years is in slices   trimmed moments and patient

hours around stoves   trips to the grocery    dishes full to over

flowing with food   even alone now  I always add garlic

and see you sometimes by sink wearing that purple

faded shirt you loved   I miss you best when I remember

our cooking   our dinner parties   easy talk  the patient

measured moments waiting for a pie to set      I eat left over

salad    spaghetti    gnaw on yesterday’s garlic

 bread    and want to stop at this this   the sky grows purple

dark pink    pale orange        a sharp knife

cuts clean   cuts quick    best  you said  my hands practiced and patient

still want to pare away the bad spots   you were over

me and moving on  suddenly   cool and sure  raw  wild garlic

and dandelions grew up fast in the side yard  our purple

bruises from moving the furniture faded    you gave me the best knife

I stay busy   read cook books   try new recipes l remember

Find I miss you when I almost lie out loud and stop    over

come with recounting the lies we told back and forth   garlic

flavoured spicy and smooth   you knew all along and said purple

is a colour of healing as though that would help   you put down your knife

put down a handful of carrots   glanced at me   shrugged   I remember

I was in a hurry for some reason     for some reason you were patient

for some reason all this comes back me at the first taste of garlic

comes back whole uncut     a bulb with little roots  purple

around the top  I’m less apt to slip these days   find knife

suddenly cutting flesh of other hand   I’m more apt to remember

the words without mincing them  bruised  neither doctor nor patient

I miss you when I say something hard   something true  

   To someone else  I miss you and this is not over

Non-violence 

I’m the girl who believes     I believe well

     I believe in violence in every cell

          every sense of body   in bones

     and blood and back    and brain

I’m the girl who put the paper target

               complete with 6 neat .38 caliber holes

                              through the small red heart

     of the line drawn picture of a man

on my door    I taped that target on my front door

     one year   It made me smile when I came home

     late nights alone   afraid

                              I know about violence

and I’m the girl who knows the name of every tree

                              on the mountain

and the place where lightning too out the top

               of the old pine   the place where the August

                              wind storm broke apart an oak

I know about violence

I’m the girl who knows the feel

               of a nickel blue blade    cold

               against the skin of rib

the girl who cries when she stands on the beach

                              and the clouds roll and the sky turns pink

I’m the girl who knows the feel of scars healing

               on a 12 year old back

                              and the feel of hoping only that they heal

               before the next set of leather belt strikes

I’m the girl who lived one summer   grown-up  wild

               on berries and roots   wild plum and apple

                              green leaves and fox grapes and asparagus

I’m the crazy girl who can run in the woods

I’m the girl who survives

I’m the girl who knows the colour of purple green bruises

               from hand and fist on arm and jaw   the feel

               of tracing those old lines about love

                              and learning    and for your own good

I’m the girl who can build things out of wood

I’m the girl who has looked into the bloody face

               of a boy   dying from a shotgun blast   hunting accident

               and the face of a girl   a friend   hit killed left

                              by a man in a white Cadillac

               and the young face of a father    killed slowly

               but just as dead   from radioactive particles

I’m the girl who talks to her dog and her furniture

                              and her food

I’m the girl who owns a gun and knows how to use it

               and I’m the girl who ydoesn’t

I’m the girl who knows that catch of breath

               when someone might   when someone holds one

                              loaded and aimed close

I’m the girl who tamed wild horses

               by talking    talking softly    talking

                              moving slowly   talking soothing

I’m the girl who practices the Zen tea ceremony

               by herself   at home before bed

I’m the girl who drank Guinness extra stout

     with 20 year old Irish girls  girls

               who smuggled guns across the border

               smuggled bombs across the border

     girls who liked bluegrass music and sang

                              sweet sweet harmonies

I’m the girl who wakes up laughing

I’m the girl who gets the burning tower

I’m the girl who stopped a rape in progress

               by wielding a broom and screaming

                       by hitting the man in the head

    with the broom    with the wood handle of the broom

                              and screaming   screaming   screaming

I’m the girl who was not brave but afraid

I’m the girl who talks nice   talks polite

               like my mama wanted   whenever I see fit

I’m still the girl who survives

and I’m the girl who knows violence

               who believes in violence

I’m the girl who’s been left  slowly   and all of a sudden

               left for and art school   left for a Perfect Master

               left for a man   left for a plan for a Good Job

                              and a house in the suburbs  left for a younger woman

               left for a line of cocaine

I’m the girl who knows about pain

I’m the girl who stayed       through car wrecks

      angry threats   screaming fits

                              the girl who’s held on long past common sense

and I’m the girl who still blushes    when someone I love

               flirts well across the table

I’m the girl who talks out loud

I’m the girl who makes mistakes  mistakes

and I’m the girl who makes changes

I’m the girl who believes in violence  

I’m the girl who owns a broom and knows

                              how to use it

I believe in violence   I believe well

               in every cell   every sense of body

and believing is what frees me    frees me

               from falling into using it

I’m the girl who can choose

Detail 3

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