That’s what the Sioux called the moon—
Ka-du-te-ta.
They believed in a waking
and a never again wanting to wake.
This is not arithmetic.
This is the sun,
to the right of it an oak,
a field filled with appointments
and orchards, beside it a home.
Helping hands on all sides, pulling
and gathering the dandelion, the fennel.
The wind echoes round, swaying the branches,
the hips beneath them. Pictures, books, albums,
cardboard boxes and containers line the land,
holding piecemeal a dreaming mind, a native moon—
everywhere a penetrating love.
At nightfall, the old woman turns to browse the details.
She is gathering together
the vacation, the harbored holiday,
a sunset and its sentinel. At all corners,
she gropes, reaching then holding time:
the suitcase with the paper sheath
poking out here and there, jamming the lock.
With persistence, she burns—
manas, mana, moon.
Nightly, her feet rise
in acknowledgement, in memoriam:
a swimming hole exists
somewhere, a lightly visible
cavern where limbs and gestures forfeit all weight.
Helping hands remove all clothing, all dust of dandelion.
Bare chests rise with the tide,
singing still— manas, mana, moon.
Chanda Jamieson is a poet and fishmonger in her hometown of Fort Myers, Florida. As the daughter of a commercial fisherman, born and raised in a small fishing town, she writes with place in mind. Chanda believes our future depends upon that sacred connection between inner life and natural world, its echo, its hum, for we are bound by it. Chanda received her MFA from Emerson College, and her work can be found in Wood Cat Review.
