BEYOND THE OBVIOUS:
HOW DOES POETRY CREATE CONDITIONS FOR RADICAL BELONGING?
Howe's poem, "1918 Union Valley Road, Oklahoma" has been printed with permission of the author for the Institute for Inquiry and Poetics, University of Arizona Poetry Center
Join us for our first event, An Evening with Joy Harjo, LeAnne Howe & Jennifer Foerster, on October 29 at 6:00 PM, Arizona Time.
1918 Union Valley Road, Oklahoma
LeAnne Howe
I
Maybe it was while reading the 1918 Union Valley Bulletin
A political handbill given John Hoggatt by a hacking cougher at the feed store
Maybe it was the sour apple gone mahogany black that he’d eaten from his wife’s cellar stash
He knew he should have given it to Trudy their hog
Maybe it was the six-mile walk to and from his father’s farm in Stonewall, Oklahoma
Just to ask, need help with that heifer, Pop?
Maybe it was the burning tingling running over the top of John’s head
As if he was being roasted alive, filling him with fear
He coughed into his fist, no
Iva honey, lock the gate so the Crowder boys can’t steal our cow
He coughed into his fist, no
Iva honey,
He coughed into his fist
Iva, so cold.
Winds like a siren whip the Junipers outside, maybe 90 per,
He swayed left, and then right, and onto their Jenny Lind bed
A wedding gift,
Coveralls still on.
II
Shocked into
consciousness
by sunlight
Iva supports
herself with her
arms and leans
forward Eyelids
thick and
gluey Has
she been
crying in
her sleep?
The bed
is cold, the
stove out Her
long black
hair matted by
high fevers In
her dreams,
the sounds
of a gurgling
brook She
looks
at John, her
teeth chatter He
is completely
blue now. She
presses on
John’s
chest. Blood
and mucus slip
between his blue
lips Breathe, John,
Breathe.
Don’t
worry I
gave our baby
girl to your
sister, Euda
Yesterday,
the day
before,
maybe last
week, She’s safe.
Didn’t make
a sound, just
waved bye-bye,
Bye-bye, bye
-bye, Mommy.
Like you,
she doesn’t
complain Like
you, she’s more
Irish than
Cherokee –
like me.
Breathe, John,
Breathe. Take
a breath, John
Hoggatt How
many times?
Breathe.
Iva curls
up by his
side, played
out Who hast
never bruised
a living
flower, she
whispers. Now
I lay
me down
to sleep I
pray
the Lord
my soul to
take If I
should die
before I
wake.
Breathe,
John.
III
The sun is yet a rumor
Iva sleeps like the dead
Until she doesn’t.
On the third day she feels herself rising
She observes herself in the mirror
Washes her mahogany cheeks
That’s odd, she thinks
Lock the gate, John,
Or the Crowder boys will steal our cow.
She coughs into her handkerchief
John honey,
She coughs into her handkerchief
John honey,
She coughs into her handkerchief
Hear me.
Yes Iva
You live in unmeaning dreams, he says,
The grave is ready.
John honey
Stay
I washed your Sunday shirt
Hung it on the line to dry
We can bury our faces
In summer laundry
Taste the scent of sun
In a field of light
Breathing as one
Stay
IV
Iva is dreaming again
She hears his name, John,
The sound like a bell on her tongue,
John
on
on
on g-
Breathe