HABITATS OF CHANGE
Alaskan Poems of Nancy Lethcoe
Selections
Waiting for a Public Phone in Whittier
Moving On
A Motionless Turn
Until My Father Calls
To Be, Unperceived
WAITING FOR THE PUBLIC PHONE IN WHITTIER
I wait for the public phone
ahead of me, a man
dressed in white jeans and a T-shirt
speaks in a foreign language
melodious, like a male song sparrow in spring
singing repeatedly from his perch, to someone he loves,
perhaps his mother, wife or lover for
he has paid for the call, keeps paying
with a changing pile of coins, dipping
and bobbing, now a little plover,
now a subtle strutting courtship
with the black change box, and then
he has no more money, his song slows and fades,
he hangs up and walks away, arms dangling, exhausted
and is replaced by two young men - cannery workers, perhaps.
One stands back to me, phone in his left hand,
leaning against the booth, ankles crossed -
socks mismatched - motionless like
a bald eagle perched silently hunting. Only his
friend moves, red socks shifting weight,
hands in red pockets, jiggling change.
The conversation is a whisper
a sweetheart? a father? a parole officer?
It's hard to say. As if he had never been there,
slowly he lifts his wings and silently turns away.
Now it's my turn to call and yours to create.
MOVING ON
Here, after the Great Earthquake
on overhanging cliffs, immobile
barnacles cling
dead shells affixed beyond the reach of tides, unmourned
for the mourners themselves have perished.
Should I still grieve when my fingers tough the stones
or enjoy
young saxifrage, red stemmed, white heads nodding -
this one brushing my hand?
What do you say when opportunistic plants flourish in rows
of statistics, of footprints, the tracks of consultants
vanish quickly, or
when slowly, the yellow-flowered cinquefoil,
spreads long stolens, young forerunners, across the
beaches, quietly
absorbing, reflecting, cradling sediments, until
tall grasses -
I saw joyful in their bending and flowing -
conceal the runs of meadow mice
and not a single barnacle or cinquefoil
remains? Should we still grieve ourselves
the barnacles and cinquefoil, mice and tall beach grasses?
Twenty-five years, to the day
black oil spills across our Sound -
terror awash
beaches wracked with pain
men crying in their sleep -
when Gail speaks more than a pebble hurts her soul;
and the swiftsure answer -
"only individuals died - no species were destroyed."
Tell me, how well have we all sounded each other's grief?
Thrust against this cliff
no perfectly ripened blueberries to pluck
I cling, clung weeping
form the permanency of change
rejoicing.
Come let us rejoice together.
A MOTIONLESS TURN
Extreme high tide, a deep quiet,
water stalks the cedar boughs;
perched, gulls part the wind.
A sleeping seal surfaces near shore
slowly breathes and sinks
and the tide drifts down
below barnacles and algae, and
the seal breathes again, softly, softly the
water sways, imperceptibly
revealing its veils -
the gulls begin to stir, circling, circling
the cove; a rust-brown weasel feeds
darting, stopping - amongst the boulders,
leaping cracks, disappearing into
the woods and back to the ripples where
small starfish clinging too long to the mussels,
become the prey of now frantic gulls
stirring the water's edge,
grey young - begging, hungry, angry -
hunched and billing, ignored;
an adult plunges its head underwater
and fetches another star
is attacked by the young
learning
and then -
the tide makes a motionless turn,
the gulls wheel to the rocks, silent; and the seal
leaves its resting place.
UNTIL MY FATHER CALLS -
I lie, warm, curled in your arms
Knees wedged into knees
The rise and fall of your breathing
Lapping against my ear
My favorite time of day
Until my father calls -
"Come to bed with me, it's been too long,"
And I say, shocked, "No Dad. Remember, I'm your
Daughter. Remember, Mother's gone."
And he looks at me bewildered,
A daughter gone grey?
Twenty years, lying in a cold bed,
Hugging a heating pad, alone
Until now missing the trail blazes
My father cries out - "Help!
The bed is on fire," and
Tears off the pillows, the blankets, the sheets
Smothering the flames he too vividly sees
Calling, "Help! help me! my bed is on fire,"
Pulling the cord, breaking the plug
And what can we say to him?
There is no fire.
Until my father calls -
"Come to bed with me, I'm cold,
There's frost on the windows and
They took away my heating pad."
And, I say, "I cannot Dad,
I'm colder than you"
Then I snuggle in burying my head.
Until I hear his footsteps
Stop, pause, wandering lost
In a hallway unremembered
And rise to help him back to bed.
"Come, just curl up with me, please,
I won't touch you," he pleads.
Pecking my cheek, and I think,
If you were mother, I'd keep you warm
But you were sonless born
And I turn away saying
"I can't come to bed with you."
"Then get me a woman, damm it!"
And just where would I begin?
Look in the yellow pages? Advertise on the radio?
"Wanted a woman to keep my father warm -"
Would I ask for her resume? check her references?
Until my father calls -
I lie embraced by your arms again
Warmed on one side by you
chilled on the other
By sorrow.
TO BE, UNPERCEIVED
We step into skiis, picking our way
kick glide gliding, kick glide gliding
I wish I could say I saw him first
I wish I could say I followed his tracks
I wish I could say I saw his tracks
crouched in the tree, frost-faced, motionless
exposed by summer's fallen leaves
more stolid than snow on the limb -
a marten.
Stillness living and silence lying
a burden on more than the tree,
we feel the weight of his watching and
turn kick glide, gliding away
leaving a silent stare
to be -
unperceived.