The poem “Kluane” paints as a beautiful picture of the lake as the photograph itself. It captures the sense of majestic and serenity.
KLUANE the tundra the mudbank the kestrels in pairs where your face blue cup and the roar of the river of the mother there is nothing in the white sky in my heart in the marsh a million willows and a jumble of legs a jumble of wings the owl tree the mask held out like an offering cupped at the throat at the moment of joining and of barbs of light in the kitchen in the pink light winter light orange light (sight) cell and moon and the isotope the signature fingerprint stained gray egg speckled washed the least sandpiper mossy nest pulsing soft blue skin and a yellow beak bark and stone mew gull eye warped and warmed the arctic tern the tufts of cottongrass the infant unwrapped
Poet’s note on the poem series, “Hearts” and “Diablo”: “I wanted, through sound and imagery, to portray some of the complexities of raising daughters in the patriarchy. I also wanted to think about how we are connected to animals and plants (being animals ourselves, after all). I hoped to explore ideas of inheritance and how hard it can be for women to speak their truth, if our mothers and grandmothers have also been harmed or silenced. Sometimes it feels like you’ll simply die if you say what you see and what you mean, but you keep doing it anyway.”
HEARTS daughter, i carve the bear into your kneecap and i hold the copper spoon to your mouth and i collect your shell-teeth and stand guard at your lungs in this birdcloud where the deer come down to drink and i wash out the bowl for their breathing their dew claws and hooves their eyes this dark brown this fat this medicine this long thin cry cry: the animal stands at the creekside the animal shakes itself and light springs out and laughter, and daughter, i draw in the dust around the stone, around the greenish glow where every face and every farce springs up quickly in the puzzlegrass: here, take here, the mask for sorrow mask for fear mask for joy mask for pain mask for anger mask for touch and voice HEARTS out of the gravel pit out of the mouth daughter, my violets and fiddle my board full of nails and rust, i trust this open sky this clef note silver breath of winter of daughter growing thin on the knoll on the savage phrase and cradle song into the fracture into the root into the blood-blue horizon the woodwinds the dry leaves scattering daughter, this flute and guitar, my new motherhands at the back at the stroking and holding (my fingertwigs) your softspot your gurgling milktooth my mold entire HEARTS daughter, i offer all my blue smoke to the inlet to every morning that comes and goes, slick as eels, and i love the blue smoke and i grow the thyme and lobelia, water the window garden, hold a tiny mirror to the seeds to the light in my pupils to light in my pupils hurrying along the waterway the seiners opening their nets and i want you to hear the rush the gorgeous sound of the fish of the smoke here moving over the surface, collecting, layer layering the waterline, the soil surface, the inlet, every window facing west, every seedling, every moment of joining and of growth, of all the sunlight moving to the south, capture, release, blue smoke in the shape of lungs, net and vessel, daughter, turning in the soil burrowing in
DIABLO i. catface and sunflower, lavender and mint, seedlings sending out root hairs and the roar of the trash man in the street taking away my leftovers, all the little things you brought me over the years: stone turtle, tiny jar of beach glass, tiny cedar canoe, blue necklace, bluish scarf, the grass basket painted red for the wedding seeds -- i turn my face into the warm wind and i turn my face and i turn my face (this is a warm dry wind-- a northeasterly) and when you see me turn my face like this, believe me i am opening my mouth again ii. gathered at the river red-headed woman hands in the birches black bark and alder torn fishes torn in the river and the gulls the ivory gulls (The Lord) is my savior is thimble and lichen and the sharpest branch the sharpest cry iii. regal sour water crystal mother-of-pearl atomizer, tube and a single jar over the kitchen sink iv. and when you see me turn my face like this, washed there, the silver bowl the bead eye the hummingbird and crow, there the large paper hive the rare bees and a riverbank and a petal (awful yellow) -- blanket woven on the old loom the bits and the bytes and if you can see me turn my face like this (hair blown into my mouth) i am offering all of it to the wind