By John Woods
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Additional resources for Black marigolds
There will be days we will lie, dark eye against the dark, damp in the flannel, drinks sweating on the side table, saying nothing, hearing nothing but the falls of distant music, the sifting of snow. Page 48 To Bilhana There are no black marigolds in this white suburb, choked by strip malls, cable radiation penetrating the well-kept colonials. Occasionally a truck will back up and haul off a relationship. From time to time, an ambulance carries off a suicide or other heart victim. A rape, a break-in, an orgasm, wars of a culture whose patients wander the night halls of hospitals and find they are senators.
Having no business there, I ran on through the stones and dead flowers. I didn't see anyone I knew. Page 10 Living in the Ground Sometimes, just off I-94, people live in basements. That's where they live, and they hear the traffic between Detroit and Chicago, gruff as the rain on their tar-paper roof. I don't claim much for their dreams, but they rise two storeys, at least, then mist out into a picture window, with a lamp that looks like light cancer. The folks send you off into wedlock with surreal appliances, hoping you find your way to heaven.
Page 58 How She Goes Once before, yes, more than once, a woman took away her whipping hair, her kitchen trebles, into other rooms with different mirrors. I know there is work to be done. Children need to know the fist and palm, the heart pains of fathers, the ways mothers become snapshots. I find a sprouting comb behind the bureau. She took away the calendar where she had marked her blood, the fuming sauces, the magic boots that made her tall. Once again, a woman has taken away her dark noisy grace.