SINGING BIRD

By Lisa Clark


Conjuring the Ghost

Pine cones crackle under her bare feet
as she wades through layers of decaying leaves,
her eyes thin slats against glints of October sun,
filtering through a canopy of trees.

Taken by the English, as a child,
she was christened “Marie Agatha.”
She could only say “Mali Agat,”
so she became Molly Ockett, the last of her tribe.

Through the towns, once her home,
she walks on worn soles that carry her through the seasons,
if not the fashions,
marked by red legging adorned with porcupine needles,
and a beaded hat.

Silver bracelets chatter softly as she lowers her body
to peer under sodden moss for Solomon’s Seal,
Willow Bark, rough as a dog’s tongue, eel skins,
fiery orange Jewelweed whose pregnant seed pods burst open
to take root beneath some owl droppings and porcupine quills,
and the leaves and roots of goldenthread to brew as tea for a sore throat.

When evening descends on the forest,
She’ll gather birch bark and flint to build a fire.
Crouching close to the blaze, her cheeks will
flush with heat as she watches the shadows of the trees
lengthen and ebb with the flicker of the flames.

She rests, silent, straining to hear the voices of her ancestors in the wind.
Above the crackle of the fire, and the flutter of bats’ wings,
is the faint scratching of a felt tip pen on blue-lined paper,
conjuring her on a summer’s evening
in a hammock beneath the Sugar Maple.


Fishing on the Androscoggin

Her feet scrabble on the rocky shore,
loose rocks echoing hollowly as they shift under her weight.
Singing Bird drags her birch canoe to the edge of the river,
sending a nervous gull scurrying off into the distance.

She settles into her boat, the late evening sun
casting a flushed glow.
She pauses, snug in her birch canoe,
riding the tidal swells,
so like the rise and fall of breath.

I pause too, like her, centuries ago
in the middle of the river,
feet trailing over the sides of the boat.

My paddle cuts the surface, creating whirlpools in the dank water,
as her paddle must have done.
The breeze rustles my hair and I imagine it brushing her own dark braids,
as she rested her paddle on her knees, like me, face raised to the sky.
I search the clouds for animal shapes.

A Loon startles me, performing a shallow dive,
skimming the surface of the water to emerge,
a hundred yards away, a fish, an alewife clutched in his beak.
Nearly as big as the Loon, it beats its forked tail, struggling to slip free.

Time was the Pequawkets would have raised their spears,
knowing where the fish were hiding.
When they’d hunted their fill, Molly would rest,
allowing gentle gusts of wind to push her towards the island
where she’d gather egret eggs, sticking her fingers with blackberry thorns.

Now a boat is moored where the berries grew,
its motor springs to life with a throaty hum.
Its owner casts me a suspicious glance,
raising his mesh trucker hat high on his forehead, one hand on the till.
He glances backward as the boat accelerates,
blind to the history of his island.


The Handmaid’s Account of Molly, age 12

A thin sewing moves in and out of lily-white fabric
that contrasts with her brown skin.
Her stitches are perfect.

Her speech a blend of primitive and prim,
she sings when she kneads the dough for apple pie.
Sable hair, twisted and secured in a bun,
shines in the light glimmering through the stained glass window.
She tiptoes over chill tiles, blue gingham swaying around her naked legs,
feet still bare.

We work together in the evenings, in our narrow room under the eaves.
A single candle illuminates her slate. I teach her sums.
She tells me the legends of her people.
A bell rings in the distance
someone from the village has come to drag my companion away,
someone in need of healing.

Sundays (when the church bells chime)
she disappears into the woods with a wooden pail,
returning for dinner, her mouth stained black,
a pail of berries in the pantry.

She eats awkwardly with fork and knife,
tucked away in the kitchen,
perched on a stool,
listening to my stories from the Bible.

At night, when the candle has been snuffed,
she creeps out of bed to rest on the floor.


The Handmaid’s Account of Molly, age 9

Standing on the docks of Penobscot Bay
she remains sullen, silent.
Her squinted eyes are red and weepy,
her skin the color of the sea kelp that clings to the pillars of the pier.
Scantily clad in rough-sewn animal furs,
her gangly knees quiver in the crisp down east wind.

She slaps my hands away
scuttling off to stare out at the bay,
and the retreating figures of her people on the Andover Queen.

Inside the home of Judge Williams
she runs around with naked feet,
chattering in grunts and gargles like a hog at slaughter.
She eats dinner with dirty fingers
and drinks from the stream in the dooryard.

She glares at me,
bare limbs exposed,
refusing to dress in a bonnet and shift,
wailing like a broodmare.

An animal needing to be tamed,
the task was mine.


The Curse of Snow Falls

Snow Falls.
The town a ghost, like Singing Bird.
White paint flakes from the clapboards of tilted farmhouses
like a snake shedding its skin.
Snow melts in deep puddles
surrounding the tires of mottled pick-up trucks
that no longer cough into action.
A lone cow stands in a field,
listing to the side from the wind,
his flanks ribbed like a tin can.

Near the end of her days, Singing Bird
floundered along this slippery path
in the sleet and icy wind
to stand on cream-colored porches
decorated with red ribbons and pine bows.
She raised elegant brass clickets,
attentive for the summoning echo
and the answering footsteps.
Only to be turned away.

She hobbled off on gnarled limbs,
hungry, tired, beaten down.
Rejected by those she’d healed.

Cursing the residents of Snow Falls,
Singing Bird succumbed to sleep.
And now the town sleeps with her.


How Molly Ockett Saved the Soul of her Beloved Husband, Piel, from Purgatory

Forty shillings (earned from the sale
of muskrat furs and woven baskets)
held tight in hand, on the trail
through wooded paths to Odanak.

Stood proud before the black-clothed priest,
the money held within her palm,
spoke lovingly of her deceased,
asking for Piel’s absolution.

The father bowed his head and prayed;
looked up at her when he was done.
“He is safe,” the priest replied,
five minutes earning him his sum.

“He has reached heaven’s gates?” she asked.
The priest assured her Piel was free.
She grabbed the gold from the desk,
her husband safe from purgatory.

“I’ll send him back,” the priest replied
angry that he’d lost his price.
She smiled gleefully and cried,
“Piel never gets trapped in the same place twice.”


Notes to Molly, from Union, Maine

I.
I thought of you,
when I walked the woods above Sennebec Pond
and heard the sounds of autos in the distance.
It is autumn now and the tops of the trees are ablaze with color.

II.
Beyond the woods are the Blueberry fields.
I imagine this is where you gathered berries for the Preacher’s wife,
the day she scolded you for picking on the Sabbath.

III.
I wonder if you smelled the same pine scent, when walking up Clary Hill
(except it didn’t have a name back then.)

IV.
In 1786, when this land was christened “Union”
because of the “uncommon harmony” among its people,
I wonder if they considered you.

V.
Gazing down, across the pond, I try to picture the far shore
without houses, without boats, as you would have seen it.
If I squint enough, they almost disappear. Almost.

VI.
The fields have been sold and soon they will become condos
for tourists from Camden. My aunt (who owns the land) will make a killing.

VII.
I picture you, taking one last glimpse of the fields
before disappearing into the woods
where no settlers would follow,
moving on to Saco and Snow Falls.



A Brief History of Poland Springs

Spring settles over Poland,
reviving the Ivy that shimmies up the trellis
on Mr. Ricker’s front porch.

The green-trimmed door swooshes open
as two unkempt boys stumble out,
tussling to be the first to catch sight of Molly as
she steps from beneath the White Pine.

Like ducklings, they follow behind
as she huddles beside the stream
capturing its waters in her deerskin flask.

She’ll drip its tiny crystal beads
on the foreheads of her patients,
extolling its healing power.

Tom, the youngest, will watch and listen.
Many springs later he’ll capture the water on his own,
bottling it in glass jars and sending it off with the milk cart.
To seaside towns like Boothbay and Bar Harbor,
where vacationers will imbibe on hikes or at the beach,
and request its unadulterated quality in their own home towns.


Death Among the Cedars

Solitary Bird,
quietly returning home,
rests beneath the cedar tree.

In a white man’s yard,
alone, she dreams of her journey.
The last of the Pequawkets.



Tanka for Places Molly Roamed


Popham Beach

Leaving hard-packed sand,
a wave recedes from the shore.
No longer exposed,
the crab scuttles over rock
escaping a preying gull.


Baxter

Knee-deep in the bog,
a bull moose guzzles water.
Startled by a thwack,
he casts a curious glance
at a beaver gliding home.


Spruce Point

Orange needles fall,
upon layers of red clay.
A squirrel scampers off
hiding his acorn beneath
a collection of milk weed.


 

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