my granddaughters are combing out their long hair sitting at night on the rocks in Venezuela they have watched their babes falling like white birds from the last of the treetop cradles they have buried them in their hearts where they will never forget to keep on singing them the old songs
brought down to earth they use twigs, flint scrapers acadian their laughter underground makes the thyme flower in darkness
my granddaughters are thin as fishbones & hornfooted but they are always beautiful under the stars: like little asian paperthings they seem to open outward into their own waterbowl
mornings they waken to Light’s chink ricocheting off an old Black’s Harbour sardinecan.
Reduce them the last evangelines make them part of the stars.
my granddaughters are coming out by night combing their burr coloured hair by the rocks and streamtrickle in Venezuela they are burnt out as falling stars but they laugh and keep on singing them the old songs.
from My granddaughters are combing out their long hair, Coach House Press, 1977