to you, to you.
than your old poison to do in this
may these words be bullets and funeral gas
in your hard, hard hearts.
–Inscription in the beginning of the book, A Man is a Hook. Trouble. Poems 1964-1973, by Faye Kicknosway.
has entwined his liver and bowels
with those of another
it says so in the manual in
black letters and
manuals don’t lie;
has taken unto himself
a uterus to pollinate from time to time.
her function guaranteed
has come to her snuggery
all dull inside.
Spiders weave their webs in the roses. He
screams they’re in his hair and his blue eyes
the air is stationary. He can not
A plant has more speech than he. His tongue
breaks. Its fragments are crystalline.
Why should I know him? His meaning is his own.
He suffers it.
I’m a lost photograph. I’ve been
in a form that is not mine. The sea fingers pebbles
into its depth; they breathe. I descend mirrors.
The Mandan live. Wired to the sun, they
swing from the lodge roof. Desert skulls weight the
ropes that hang from their punctured skins.
All my children are dead.
I collect their bones and bury them in the rose earth.
They are mirrors.
I cannot sleep.
My daughter, Jeyoani, who is 31 and lives in L.A. and is a poet and musician, sent me these finds from the dusty book of poetry she bought for one dollar in a used bookstore in North Hollywood. The author is Faye Kicknosway and the title of the book is A Man Is A Hook. Trouble. Poems 1964-1973. I’m going to find it and buy it. So so much amazing women’s poetry, poetry of revolutionary women, freedom poetry, lost and forgotten. Well, not if Jeyoani and I and you have anything to do with it.
Of course, it would be next to impossible to find a publisher who would touch a book like this now, anything remotely like this. Ask any radical feminist poet.