WHAT IS MINE TO CLAIM

I am from a turn-of-the-century home,

from radiators and a laundry chute.

I am from the oak tree in the backyard.

I am from dogs and cats and hamsters,

crucifixes on bedroom walls

and rosaries in our pockets.

I am from lemon pepper chicken, from boxed

yellow cake with chocolate frosting.

I am from lake water, calm or stormy.

Year over year, from jack-o’-lanterns’

faces carved alive, and Christmas trees

lighting the living room corner.

I am from conversations about politics

and religion, from justice-driven relatives,

the Irish famine still deep in their souls.

I’m from O’Driscolls, O’Geraghtys, and O’Higgins clans,

from potatoes cooked every which way.

From the sister who died at 24

in a car accident, from parents who

placed the board across the creek so we could cross.  

When I drive through the old neighborhood

past my house, my schools, the parks

and St. Augustine’s Church tethered to the hilltop,

somehow the passage of time is okay,

knowing I am from such a place,

such a people.

HONORING MEADOWBROOK

            for Cora

Up against the wetland forest

where bands of light fuse with frosty grass,

the bull’s crown of points cuts the sky

like a lapidary cuts stone.

My daughter, new to this small town,

has found the meadow where the elk herd thrives.

This birthplace of the Snoqualmie Tribe.

This Hyas Kloshe Ilahee,

their “great good land.”

Close enough, we see the bull’s exhalation spill

into visible air, others lay their bodies

of thick smooth fur into the earth,

and some graze to fatten up

for the harsh winter ahead.

No haunting bugle, no ritualized rut,

just benevolent existence—

this first witnessing together

of what is holy.

What cannot last

is still a blessing.

The minute we drive away

we make room for this

new song in our hearts.