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Gourd

In a sideboard shuttered away, I find it.
I shake it.
let it fill my palm—
this brown surface
smooth and firm.
Who held it,
carried it to this shore?
I shake it, beads rattle, as I stand
hoping to hear voices— Ayiti—
voices lilting
from a land I long to know
(whispers, secrets)
to know how I am moored to them.
And who placed
the gourd
in the chest of a drafty dining room
on Cape Cod beneath old books,
recipes for this home,
a bed and breakfast
listed once
in The Green Book?
O Gourd—
abandoned, buried
in mahogany wood— chest
of darker shade, I wait
to cross into that part,
—trusting I can live somewhere
in between yearning,
to settle, at last,
in one skin—here
Ayiti Ayiti Ayiti…
people from Senegal, Guinea,
Sierra Leone, Angola, songs,
once distant, now one
I search for what has been
inside and now is summoned
summoned in sound.

The Collector
To M. Clement Denizé, grandfather

In the one photograph I have,
you sit composed, staring calmly
into a camera lens, looking almost
almost as though you would or could speak.

A handlebar moustache frames your face—
from your black jacket, black bow tie, white shirt
you were, perhaps, a government “official”?
And I surmise— how would you see me
— half Haitian, half American.

I’m a collector of remains
of remains locked in stillness, dreams,
lost stories thriving in silence.

I’m the collector
of vanishing days, nights,
gathering salt and sounds
vibrations on the eardrum,
moving over one membrane, thin
as parchment or the skin of a drum.

Your gaze and smile— frozen,
a clock that never moves,
leave me seeking
wondering what happened
before silver,
before sugar,
before slaves,
before rum
before you, grandfather, find your way
to a lane that leads to the lycée
where your body
is found, a bullet behind
the ear.
Did your wife feel absence before
someone shut your eyes. Did she feel life
beneath this life.

Now I sit with only a photo,
feel your presence in absence.
And, I suspect, no one but me
— your legacy—
will remember. So, was it luck—me
finding freedom in this— your face
where all that’s left
of you
epicenter of story,
is this:
one solitary image…

So. What’s left
I will collect.

Touch
For Marie Elliott
I.
Seventy years of remnants. In a sideboard
with tarnished silver, place mats, recipes
of desserts and meats torn from newspapers.
Memories. I find the small book, its pages, frayed
and yellowed, where handwritten notes
lists— catch me off guard—
ailments, treatments,
equipment needed—everything
how to, when to, where to:
nasal feeding,
gastric aspiration,
vaginal exam,
evening operations.
How to report to the head nurse,
or attending physician.
How to clean, discharge patients
who to call,
where to send tests
how to …
The little book, its front and back cover lost,
has history, purpose: do no harm.
A log not about machines, but hands
showing how much care
a body needs to heal,
a spirit to rest.
Not machines— hands
on something, on someone.

II.
when segregation is law

The nurse buys the three-story house at auction—
when segregation is law—
and the State Department of Health calls
asks the nurse to take just one elderly, black
and then calls again, to say
If you have one patient, will you take two?
and so on, until the house is full,
is doing well, so well, (her family on one floor,
patients on another)
the nurse hires a cook, extra help. But
after the office learns
social security checks still go out,
after the office sees payments,
payments for aging, vulnerable
weak-bodied blacks—are too big,
after all is well, a woman
in the office of health calls the nurse, says
What are you doing? We send them there to die,
and you keep them living?
A nurse—after all— knows
to care for the unwanted,
knows do not deny
life. Keep folks living—
do more more
than do no harm.

I stand still, hold it like a book of prayer—
I did not know. This small book,
its notes, treatments, procedures again gives life.
Solace opens, roots me in place.
Notes, handwritten,
show how to heal, grow old
how to touch and touch another.

VISITING MIMMI, EYES ON THE SPARROW

95 years old and blind by then Mimmi, my grandmother’s mother, was in a nursing home when we’d visit her. We’d announce ourselves as we entered the room. Our ritual never differed. Mimmi would repeat our names, as if to assure herself or us that she could see us, know us, still, or perhaps it was relief she’d not been forgotten among strangers. However it was, she’d give the same greeting, “Is that my Marie?” and gram would answer, “Yes, it’s Marie, William, and Donna, here.” And Mimmi’s reply, familiar, “Oh, I knew you’d come; let me touch your face so I can see you.” Reverently, one by one, we’d each move forward like churchgoers going for blessings. She’d place her hands on each forehead, then open her fingers like fans, and run gently downward, caressing each cheek. When she’d reached a chin, she would begin to sing, “His Eye is on the Sparrow,” her favorite hymn. When done, we’d sit and tell her how every family member was doing, but never who died, I surmise, because we didn’t want to sadden her, remind her that she too was close, closer to death, didn’t want to remind her of that. (Such a short time for visits). e And we did not want to call to memory ancestors who’d passed on unnamed, unknown. In our last visit before Mimmi passed, gram said, “Don’t tell her Mr. Riggs, (her second husband) had passed last week.” I promise to say nothing. I can be trusted, though only ten.

We entered her room in the home. Mimmi was seated on the side of her bed, calm, focused. She’d heard us before we announced ourselves, and said, Is that my Marie? Gram answered, Yes, it’s Marie, William, and Donna. We’re here. She asked for her ritual of touching faces, but did not sing this time: You know, Fred died a few days ago, and he visited me last night. We went up into the clouds and we danced and danced. I had such a good time. He asked me if I’d like to go with him, and I said no, but next time, I think I’ll go because we had such a good time.

I looked at my grandmother’s face. It said, be silent, as though Mimmi had said nothing supernatural, strange. One by one, gram told Mimmi about the family, never saying who else had died. When it was time, time to leave, Mimmie sang out joyfully, “His Eye is on the Sparrow.” She died the next week. We never mentioned our last visit. We simply cleaned out her apartment. And these, the only remnants of love I recall, not the place or space.

bike, wind, canal flow
(Back then wedid notknow what we did not know).

Cape Cod. Me, a girl of nine or ten,
tomgirl. Cape Cod
not Cap Haitian— tomgirl
roving the land, riding the bike
to the beach the store the pier.

That girl half-Cape, half Haitian
stands on the pier staring in waters below.
Under the pier, grey and wood-worn,
a hen, ducklings in tow, glides
past pilings covered by barnacles, ashen white.
Gathering minnows winding in and out of seaweed—
wispy, green filaments that rise and fall with waves.
Dull-eyed gulls stare into air. Girl hair:
two kinky braids
tight with Dixie Peach.

Here, no steely, blue eyes
peer in. The ride
against only wind
the glimpse only
water’s brisk flow.

Pass lobster pots, ropes, weathered
ropes ashen and braided, frayed and green
green with seaweed and salt. Traps rest on rocks—
single, and alone—traps out of water,
out of place. Peddle past rocks, seagulls,
lonesome cries. Raw North winds
press against brown skin, skin so thin
a girl might rise, rise up, out of body
a fledging flailing, wildly flailing.

What did I know of Toussaint,
Wampanoags,
wars on these shores,
Paul Cuffee,
Cape Verde, or Portugal?
(Back then wedid notknow what we did not know).
I know
salt water, lilacs, grapes, wild berries.
Senses— spirit craving Spirit.
Back then—only single
alone
the bike
the wind
canal’s brisk flow.

Donna Denizé is Haitian American. Her poems appear in “Gargoyle,” “Provincetown Arts,” “Innisfree Journal of Poetry,” and a new anthology entitled From the Belly: Poets Respond to Gertrude Stein’s
Tender Buttons Volume II (Food). Her essays appear in Sonnets of the American, The Folger Guides to Teaching Hamlet // Macbeth // Romeo and Juliet // Othello and English Journal.
She has a Master of Arts from Howard University, and a Master of Fine Arts from Pacific University.

Featured image “His and Hers Vintage Schwinn Touring Bicycles” by Wayne Wilkinson and uploaded by Ser Amantio di Nicolao to be licensed via creative commons 2.0 via Wikimedia Commons.