This Is About Incest Firebrand Books, Ithaca, New York, 1987


Rain almost hides my mountains today.
Low clouds snag the rocky skirts.
Colors of rain and clouds clean everything.
I speak of the rain, the clouds, the living colors
of this land
because it seems impossible
to cut this silence with the words
my grandfather was a sick and evil man
posing as healer.
Now I retrieve his hands and eyes
his penis filling my tiny infant mouth
as he forced himself into a body, mine,
that still finds reason easier than feeling.
This is the green lucite top
of a clothes hamper where rape impaled diapers.
This is memory catching up with itself
overtaking asthma, compulsive food,
fear of that which is not itself.
This lost green hamper.
My body, coming home.