I am almost afraid to write down
This thing. I must have been,
Say, seven years old. That afternoon,
The families of the WPA had come out
To have a good time celebrating
A long gouge in the ground,
That the fierce husbands
Had filled with concrete.
We knew even then the Ohio
River was dying.
Most of the good men who lived along that shore
Wanted to be in love and give good love
To beautiful women, who weren’t pretty,
And to small children like me who wondered,
What the hell is this?
When people don’t have quite enough to eat
In August, and the river,
That is supposed to be some holiness,
They swim in the earth. Uncle Sherman,
Uncle Willie, Uncle Emerson, and my father
Helped dig that hole in the ground.
I had seen by that time two or three
Holes in the ground,
And you know what they were.
But this one was not the usual, cheap
Economics, it was not the solitary
Scar on a poor man’s face, that respectable
Hole in the ground you used to be able to buy
After you died for seventy-five dollars and
Your wages tached for six months by the Heslop
Brothers, dear God.
No, this hole was filled with water,
And suddenly I flung myself into the water.
All I had on was a jockstrap my brother stole
From a miserable football team.
Oh never mind, Jesus Christ, my father
And my uncles dug a hole in the ground,
No grave for once. It is going to be hard
For you to believe; when I rose from that water,
A little girl who belonged to someone else,
A face thin and haunted appeared
Over my left shoulder, and whispered, Take care now,
Be patient, and live.
I have loved you all this time,
And didn’t even know
I am alive.