21 August 71 Indian.
Building the fire using shavings I made this afternoon
as I attempted a sculpture, a bird
or the wisp of high thin cloud in fall
from a length of curved white pine.
The fire is slow to catch.
Wood is damp, but it begins to start
and I throw on the larger pieces.
An old girlfriend came by a while ago, fat
and getting older wearing wide dark shades.
She held a fat and healthy baby.
I was making tortillas then, flour on my hands,
rolling dough out on a board--
on a board with a tall drinking glass.
She didn't say anything as her husband and I talked.
I was glad she didn't ask why I was not
a lawyer, or an engineer.
Fire burns the thin shavings quickly and soon dies down
under larger pieces.
The red coals are weak.
I have to watch and put smaller pieces on next time.
Get knife and splinter larger into smaller
and feed the coals being patient.
We'll have a late supper tonight.
Maybe the clouds will part some by then
and let me see some stars.
It's been years since I told her then
of the things I was discovering about myself.
I took long evening walks then and listened
to the sounds of rivers and she would come looking for me.
She never knew I don't think until today
that I could make tortillas, that I've
learned to survive this way over a fire for my loan supper.
Fire burns good now.
Good red coals will get the beans and tortillas
to warm over the glowing coals.
I will have purple plums for dessert.
I am able to see some stars now too.
I don't think I'll ever be an engineer or at least even
a poverty lawyer.