Fushimi-Inari-Taisha

Twin Fox-dogs in scarlet neckerchiefs
companion the dead at shrines
punctuating ease of cedar and bamboo

groves along the mountain path,
remainders of human pain.
two stone dogs for every

soul swirling in the mottled shade.
Early violets tilt sunward
in the breaks beside knockings

high among bamboo trunks.
a lonely crow complains on the wind..
Turn and return to the ten thousand

scarlet torii gates and the hundreds
taking the good luck path this Wednesday
in Kyoto on the lower slopes.

Ring the temple bells to make a wish.
On a corner past the venders’ stalls,
among small shops and restaurants,

five cats wait at the blue café,
a place where you can go to play
with cats and pay for your time.

They blink your way at the door,
perfect balance with the golden afternoon,
one paw extended from chair or windowsill.

Sign in bold English–Neko Café is a Cat Café.
A tabby presents his belly to your hand,
“Pilgrim,” he says, “less self, more God.”

**

Lahinch Beach

Limpets hold fast to the sea wall,
ignoring sharp wind from the west.
Sheltering dunes with their deep-rooted
grasses and daisies flank our path
to the pebbled surf. A cormorant
repeats its dives, as mute swans
play at safe distance. The golden
eagle of St. John, unafraid
of the sun, sails higher than
a passing plane. Swifts at twilight
chase lowering clouds; salt spray
moves like mist toward the shops.

I hold your hand
To keep me anchored.

**

Lullaby for Grandson Gavin, on His Seventh Week

Smoke from the fires in California have reached us on the Mississippi shore. Hazed sun since morning. White ash dressing the garden. It would be four days driving to live embers raining, and distant screams of deer and rabbits burning in the blackened hills.

Big sister Sweetie Pie is three years old, wears every necklace from Grandma’s basket, for a dance party in Granddad’s study. Jingle jangle, yellow submarine. And nap time is lap time with my little boy blue, already in the six-month size pajamas.

Rocka baby and read my phone. Ads just for me. Earrings like the northern lights, then the amazing eco-jet personal butt cleaner.

Rocka rocka, baby, rocka rocka roo

Mice sing to each other. We cannot hear them. In the wild grasses and leaf litter they lilt, ending always in an upward note. Ultrasonic, recordable.

Ah rocka rocka, baby, ah rocka rocka roo

Trees send aid through the fungi of their roots. Mother nourishment vibrates upward in saplings drawn in the network we cannot see. Crowns tower in the canopy just shy of each other. The root embrace is enough.

Ah rocka rocka, baby, ah rocka rocka roo

Fish become dogs if you feed them at the boat slip. Their eyes open, mouths flipping up to your hand. Pet them on the head. Gently gently, the current swift at the center.

Ah rocka rocka, baby, ah rocka rocka roo

Wind cuts from the west across the caged tomato vines. I shield your sister’s slender form, cupped in my bending body. We are picking all the green ones before the killing frost. Leave the smallest for the squirrels, the rabbits and mice. Littles for little mouths, she says.

And rocka rocka, baby, rocka rocka roo

Filaments twist across the universe, holding galaxies unknown to us. Lullaby. Night is rolling ash wind over cold clay. I will keep you hidden from virus, flame, and poison. You will bury me someday.

**

My Mother Questions What Is Normal

I can hear her toss the walker
across the room
and move by clinging
from thing to thing
to the kitchen counter.
Her phone is on speaker.
Can you hear this racket?
Three geese are parading
from the bathroom to the front door
and will not listen. How did they get in?
And these big gold fish are shimmering
in the carpet by the closet. Of course,
they cannot understand speech
like the geese can, but who put a fish pool
in here? What a real Einstein, that one.
And there was a little boy. He won’t
do his homework. He better learn
his times tables or they might keep him back.
You remember how we used to say them
together like a jump rope rhyme. That’s how
you learned them. Those fish are not real.
I know that, but there they are.
You are going to tell me this is not normal,
but what is? What is normal after all?
And where does normal get you?
Where does normal get you? Tell me that.
Tell me that. Tell me that. Tell me that.
Oh, Mom, hold on to that counter.
Whatever you do, don’t move.
I’ll get there as fast as I can.
I will be in the form of your daughter.

**

Watershed Warning

Erect blue towers on my body;
I lie low in sweet reflection,
to all my creatures give provision;
I layer the stone to mark the way.
At my edges leave your boot print;
test my wetlands with your poisons,
where the absent salamanders
follow with me to the river.
Light of weasel, light of vole,
light of eagle, trout, and otter;
all my wild geese sound the trumpet.

Regard your mother.
I will take you down.

 —————————————————–

Drucilla Wall was raised in Philadelphia, Pennsylvania. She received her B.A. from the University of Wisconsin, her M.A. from the University of Nebraska-Omaha, and her Ph.D. in English from the University of Nebraska at Lincoln. She taught poetry and essay writing, and Native American literature, at the University of Missouri-St. Louis until 2020. In addition to poetry, her essays appear in journals and anthologies. She has earned awards and fellowships for her work, including the Mari Sandoz Prairie Schooner Short Story Award, the Western Literature Association Willa Pilla Prize for Humor in Writing, and University of Nebraska Fling and Larson Fellowships. She lives in St. Louis, Missouri, and has spent summers with family and friends in Wexford and Galway, Ireland, since 1985. She co-edited Thinking Continental: Writing the Planet One Place at a Time (University of Nebraska Press). Drucilla Wall is currently touring Australia.