The Eyes of My Regret

Angelina Weld Grimké

Always at dusk, the same tearless experience,

The same dragging of feet up the same well-worn path

To the same well-worn rock;

The same crimson or gold dropping away of the sun

The same tints—rose, saffron, violet, lavender, grey

Meeting, mingling, mixing mistily;

Before me the same blue black cedar rising jaggedly to a point;

Over it, the same slow unlidding of twin stars,

Two eyes, unfathomable, soul-searing,

Watching, watching—watching me;

The same two eyes that draw me forth, against my will dusk after dusk;

The same two eyes that keep me sitting late into the night, chin on knees

Keep me there lonely, rigid, tearless, numbly miserable,

       —The eyes of my Regret.

Chickens

I come from hay and barns, raising

chickens. In spring, lambs come.

You got to get up, fly early, do the orphan run

sleep till dawn, start the feeding.

When the electricity shuts off, you boil water, you crack ice.

You keep the animals watered.

You walk through the barn, through the hay smell,

your hair brittle where you chopped it with scissors

same ones you use for everything. Your sweater has holes.

When you feed the ram lambs, you say goodbye.

Summer, choke cherries; your mouth’s dry. Apples, cider.

Corn picking. Canning for weeks that feel like years.

Chopping heads off quail, rabbits, chickens.

You can pluck a chicken, gut it fast.

You find unformed eggs, unformed chicks.

They start chirping day nineteen.

You make biscuits and gravy for hundred kids

serve them up good. You’re the chick

who never got past day nineteen, never found your chick voice.

You make iced tea. They say, you’re a soldier in the king’s army.

At night, you say to yourself, Kathy, someday.

We go walking. We go talking. We find a big story.

A cracking egg story. A walking girl story.

A walking out of the woods story. A not slapped silly story.

A not Jesus story. Hush, Kathy you say, we get out of here.

We find out where chicks go when they learn to fly.