And then this last poem, "Autochthonic Song".
There's a reference here, I don't know if any of you
are familiar with this, of this rather odd vision that Columbus
had on one of his later journeys off the coast of South America.
He's had this kind of vision of the Earth rising
in the distance like a breast.
And so there's a reference to that in here.
"Autochthonic Song".
"We knew the buffalo were dangerous, but most
of the time, as we drifted among them, longing
to touch the bright curls of the spring calves,
their coats the color of new pennies,
they lowered their heads to the wild grasses
and shied away only when we drew too near.
For months we moved among them, circling the sweet expressions
of the calves as they kept circling that hill that
seemed to zigger off, pointed at the summit
like that odd vision of Columbus off the coast of South America.
The Earth was round and something
rising in the distance like a breast, who
thought he had reached the beginning of all creation,
the nipple of time and space.
The hill glittered with mica, plates the size and breadth
of a human hand scattered over its flanks.
We tried many times to bevel by hand
the stones into a clear plane, an eyeglass through which we
can view the world.
But the crystals only split along the cleavage,
until running among that shaggy tribe,
we forgot our mothers, our fathers,
as if running among that remnant,
we can save some part of ourselves from extinction.
Crazy with liberty, I veered toward a calf,
drew so close that I could never remember if I had touched it
or not.
But the mother, her malevolence, one movement with her desire
to protect, wield an alarm, and as she did so,
the herd wield with her.
As a flock of sparrows will turn in the sky
to enfold a red-tailed hawk, a current of rippling
fear or anger, the buffalo turn to charge us.
We ran, the breath scattering out of our child lungs,
barely able to keep ahead of that rhythm
that had always seemed like that of a choppy, rocking horse,
but which now seemed as fluid as a flash flood churning down
an arroyo.
We ran toward the hill, hoping the slope would save us
by wearing them down, the climb exhaust their fury.
And it did, but so slowly that by the time
the buffalo stopped, milling about halfway up,
we were ourselves stampeded.
Seized by a panic so ancient it kept our ribs
splintering in our chests all the way up the hill,
until we crammed ourselves into the tiny cave and its summit,
clinging to ourselves among the black widow
spiders, the sloppy cobwebs of fear.
And it was only then that I understood.
The Earth is not our mother, but a wild music beyond the self."
Thank you.