POETRY

About To Harvest a Field of Corn,

I Remember Finding Arrowheads While Plowing...

Twice, when the rains came hard

I was afraid the Indian mounds would wash away. They didn't. This valley is a young brave's arm raised to spear the deer

who drink the same water. Once

they ran wildly in search of each other. Each grew fat from the song of the swallow. Now, the grass is the green answer to the ritual of death. Hush, a squaw is turning to the wind and calling, "Great Mother.” She does not hear the roar

of hooves in the belly of the mountains. She lies down and lets the wind be the balm to her sore need. Where this corn is gold, there were hands turning soil to people and soil again. Not long

in the time the earth cradles. Look, over there,

the hills are rolling in their dreams...

The Last Visit

Slow down, unshod the horses' hooves wear

down to the quick, even on the shoulder of the road.

We must save them for this one last mile.

Far we have come, where the hills roll into home.

Our parents sit on the porch; rocking, rocking

beside us, real as a dream,

close as marrow to bone and just as thick.

They raise their hands in greeting;

one wave draws us in,

"The cicadas are loud with August...

The sign of the moon is in the heart...

Where on the road did the rains root out a crossing?”

We have stayed away long enough. We are visitors

instead of their children, entirely. We pass the time—

The horses are pawing to go. We say so long. We ride away leaving them to face each other

in the long hours of need turned habit...

We hum the last words of cries turned inward

and hear our family name rage in our blood.

Redefining: Horizon

So now, Montana-

Mile after mile of endless sky held to earth

by strands of barbed wire stretched into boundary.

A few head of cattle stand idle, hungry and thirsty for what is

not in their pasture;

longing for the other side of home. Let them go

Open the gates to the pastures of plenty.

Look up, a hawk is soaringThe element of air

lets it rest alone; finding some comfort there. Encompassing the 4 directions, its arcing path of flight proves that wind, like love, is not cornered by geography.

Far below, the cattle turn back

to grazing on dream.

Once again, they have found

that grasses and waters taste

the same, after a while.

Oh, but the going, the finding and the dream-

The way things become what they are!

OFF

MY BREAST

This article is, in part, a response to the article "The Courage to be a Mother," by Christine Haynes, published in the October issue of WSW. Chris' article uncovered strong feelings both related and unrelated to the article, feelings that are connected to my own experience as a mother. What follows is not a personal criticism of Christine Haynes, her decision, or her article. I am responding to some of the ideas she expressed.

I was glad to see an article dealing with a woman's personal feelings about motherhood. It is an enormously important subject for all women, men and children. Neither the significance, nor the real content of motherhood has been given the attention it deserves by feminists or anyone else. This is not a child-centered society.

I thought Chris' article conveyed clearly and eloquently the careful thinking and strong convictions behind her decision to have a child. She made many important points, including the observation that she felt defensive about her decision. I would like to expand on some points she made and disagree with others.

I am a 36-year-old mother of two sons. I have lived a very traditional life (marriage, house in the suburbs, major credit cards and two children), and a not so traditional life (divorced, living in a lesbian relationship, full-time student, no major credit cards and two children, who, because of my lifestyle, were denied the choice of living with me). In spite of the apparent extremes in my former and present lifestyles, my involvement with and in the lives of my children has not changed. Although I am not with them full-time, they are a constant part of what I do, what I think and how I feel. They are a part of me.

Page 10/What She Wants/November, 1979,