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Mr. Gauger’s field was such a wonder We were forbidden to go in, but every summer, slipping beneath the barbed wire we explored its mysteries. The chest high grass hid countless treasures and drew us there, like a sirens song. We traversed its length a thousand times, every time finding something new. Each of us had a favorite spot. Mine was an old tractor. Its seat wasn’t very comfortable, but it rose out of the amber ripples of itchy grass, like the back of a noble steed awaiting its mistress. As I clambered onto the huge iron seat, warm in the midday sun, it would flex up and down, a ship rocking in its moorings. Down it would bend and spring up again -a diving board- with me, plunging into the tawny pool rippling below. Every time I scrambled onto that iron seat, I imagined myself somewhere far away - a queen driving her chariot a hunter scouting for prey a goddess floating above the clouds. I would love to climb once more, onto that old tractor seat and wait for a new adventure to begin.
We labored up Tupungato, for 7 harrowing days. The air bit our lungs and seared our flesh. Velasquez was airlifted out. When the helicopter came in, I heard the others muttering, "I hope it doesn’t crash." The Andes are a graveyard for aircraft and this icy volcano is no exception. That’s why we’re here. 52 years ago, radio operators in Chile reported a Morse code message "STENDEC" The acronym has no meaning. Theories have surfeited about the plane’s disappearance; some claim sabotage. No one really knows why it went down. It just did. I can’t help thinking about the families left behind; families like mine. They never knew what happened. They never got to say goodbye. The Lt. Col. said, "We’ll pack out the bodies of those we can find. Perhaps they will at last find peace. God willing, we will learn why they died." This is a terrible place to die.
 3
I looked into the mirror and saw a room full of furniture Saw a 6-year-old girl looking at room full of furniture a tall twin bed, a large chest of drawers, a small red wicker chair, a toy box, a doll cradle, a full size bed "for visitors", a beautiful dressing table with a great circular mirror She could see the room in the reflection of that huge mirror sitting atop the dressing table but her eyes stuck fast on the crib in the corner They said he wasn’t coming home She could her their voices on the other side of the door, whispering She’d gone out to see them but she couldn’t stand their eyes. Mommy was crying, Daddy was silent, Grandma spoke as if she wasn’t there at all. so she retreated back to her room, wondered what she had done, stared at the empty crib, peered into the mirror, And inspected the reflection of a room full of furniture.
 4
The drought watcher Hoping to see heaven smile Looks toward the Northern Lights And catches sight of Marshmallow rain clouds In shafts of orange sunrise Visions flood over the watcher Cerulean waters burst Across the mountains Summer flowers golden Amongst leaves Verdant and lush Certainly the moon would not Interfere with hope’s cloud But the sun laughs and There will be no reward
Weed-grown grasses enjoyed no fences And open fields were oceans Poplars were pirate ships And adventuring pirates rode them Through the waves Then there were new adventurers Who found the oceans Used the poplars And cut crossings between them Enclosing a hole in time Nettles, board, chain link Rail, barbed-wire, picket Once there were no fences Manicured lawns Tree-cut stumps The pirates wear suits And the adventurers Are forgotten
Wings were meant to fly Scientists can tell you what makes them work They can explain the principles of loft and the aerodynamics of a feather They can gather evidence to support their theories on the evolutionary process But they cannot tell you what the bird thinks the first time it takes flight Or why a human heart soars on spirit wings Wheeling in the air
Red rover, red rover send Mary right over She doesn’t want to go she doesn’t like this game They are still children
She is not the same I wish that they could understand why she doesn’t want to hold their hands
When they grab her it hurts so much; she pulls back from their touch She said if she were something free, she would chose to be a tree
A tree is rough - covered with bark
A tree is tougher than a remark
"What’s the matter with your skin?"
"Why are you always thin?" Chemo treatments make her sick
"Just one more test…a little prick" They do not seem to comprehend
The toll of what they recommend
The doctors say it has to be
So she would rather be a tree
x Her robe slid from her shoulders Fell with a soft noise to the floor Her skin shone with a luminescent glow Against the ebony night of the room Slowly she pulled open the door Her footfalls silent as she moved Many times she’d made this stroll To roam with her thoughts in the hours of darkness Soon she came to the end of her roving Her footsteps now soft upon moss She slid into the cool waters of the pool Beneath the cloudless opal moon
rumbling vibration soothes the night where fur meets flannel and his satisfaction becomes my own
I dance with eggshells, teetering along the fine line between anxiety and insanity, hovering there because movement either way becomes a declaration. I am afraid of choosing one side of the line over the other, because choosing will change things. I concede this is fear, I have lived with its icy fingers and gut-wrenching, mind-numbing torture. But I am familiar with it. I know it as a lover knows the intimate curves of the beloved. Thus, I force myself to remain in limbo. On the brink of madness, everyday pleasantries become an obsession. The phrases-"How are you doing?" "How are you feeling?"-tether me suspending the nightmare of everyday living; because my assurances that, "I’m fine", fool everyone, and for awhile, even me.
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All of the above poems are ©
Copyright Lori Schwartzkopf 2000.
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