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Too Bright to See & Alma
By Linda Gregg Graywolf Press
Copyright © 2002 Linda Gregg
All right reserved. ISBN: 1-55597-357-4
Chapter One
THE GIRL I CALL ALMA The girl I call Alma who is so white is good, isn't she? Even though she does not speak, you can tell by her distress that she is just like the beach and the sea, isn't she? And she is disappearing, isn't that good? And the white curtains, and the secret smile are just her way with the lies, aren't they? And that we are not alone, ever. And that everything is backwards otherwise. And that inside the no is the yes. Isn't it? Isn't it? And that she is the god who perishes: the food we eat, the body we fuck, the loose net we throw out that gathers her. Fish! Fish! White Sun! Tell me we are one and that it's the others who scare me, not you. AT THE SHORE Naked women are being dragged down the sandstone shelving on their backs, very slowly. With ropes tied to each foot separately so the legs close and spread open as they are moved. When they cry out or shout down at the men sitting in the lifeguard chairs looking at them through the gun sights, the sounds, no matter how angry or foul, curve and billow like a wave: coming to the men on a soft wind caressingly, like sirens singing. SUMMER IN A SMALL TOWN When the men leave me, they leave me in a beautiful place. It is always late summer. When I think of them now, I think of the place. And being happy alone afterwards. This time it's Clinton, New York. I swim in the public pool at six when the other people have gone home. The sky is grey, the air hot. I walk back across the mown lawn loving the smell and the houses so completely it leaves my heart empty. THE WOMAN ON HER KNEES AT THE RIVER She is washing clothes, her body moving forward and back in its two positions. Suppliant giving. She grinds corn with stone on stone the same way and makes the round flat bread. All this in a place filled with the weight of death. Life would stop in this poverty if she got into a boat that moved away by itself full of flowers. NO MORE MARRIAGES Well, there ain't going to be no more marriages. And no goddam honeymoons. Not if I can help it. Not that I don't like men, being in bed with them and all. It's the rest. And that's what happens, isn't it? All those people that get littler together. I want things to happen to me the proper size. The moon and the salmon and me and the fir trees, they're all the same size and they live together. I'm the worse part, but mean no harm. I might scare a deer, but I can walk and breathe as quiet as a person can learn. If I'm not like my grandmother's garden that smelled sweet all over and was warm as a river, I do go up the mountain to see the birds close and look at the moon just come visible, and lie down to look at it with my face open. Guilty or not, though, there won't be no post- cards made up of my life with Delphi on them. Not even if I have to eat alone all these years. They're never going to do that to me.
(Continues...)
Excerpted from Too Bright to See & Alma by Linda Gregg Copyright © 2002 by Linda Gregg. Excerpted by permission.
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