Genevieve, Born During A Hurricane
.
Julie Buffaloe-Yoder
Back then, they had
the predictions
of women.
.
The smell of wind,
expanding clouds.
The drop of pressure
deep in their bones.
.
She was due to arrive
in that season of heat.
Brown calico curtains
had slapped for days.
.
The women felt her
in their wombs;
dreams
were of rosemary
flames
blew the wrong way.
A blue baby heron
fell to the ground.
.
They boiled water
boarded windows
pulled boats to shore,
smeared crosses of mud
across their front doors.
.
The women gathered
with a rustle of sheets,
massaged their sister
with herbs and oil
.
held her small
fevered hands
chewed on roots
moaned through
contractions
hallucinations
.
breathing in unison
panting, searching
for the rhythm of
a curly black head
shoulders, arms
ten fingers, ten toes.
.
Genevieve came in
with raging wind
salt-thick water
loud yellow sky
.
blood and tide
rising
over their feet
.
chunks thumping
on a cottage roof
trees bowing low;
waves clapping back
across broken shore.
.
They finally heard
the creak of quiet.
Small drops of
sleeping
baby’s breath.
.
They washed Genevieve
with soft brown sheets;
saved the slick glisten
of remnants
in rusty pails.
.
Their breasts
were heavy,
filled with milk.
.
Her mother,
fourteen,
did not survive.
.
***************************************************************************
.
I don’t usually post brand new work, because it’s not finished. Are they ever
finished?.. But I felt compelled to share this draft because of how it began.
.
One night last week, I dreamed I was walking along the shore back home. I
was wearing a peasant style dress that (somehow) I knew was from the early
1900’s. I wondered why I was wearing it. I saw a mirror floating in the water,
and I picked it up and looked. I looked like a girl I don’t know. Maybe she
symbolized me or someone else in my life. She had black curly hair
and bright green eyes.
.
Then the mirror turned into a piece of wood. I became very excited, because
I knew it was a piece of wood from my father’s boat. I don’t know why that
excited me. My father’s boat was sold when a family member couldn’t afford
to work the water anymore. When I’m awake, it makes me sad to think about
the boat.
.
I turned the wood over in my hands, and it had the title, Genevieve, Born
During A Hurricane on it. It also had these words written under the title:
.
The women felt her
in their wombs;
dreams
were of rosemary
flames
blew the wrong way.
A blue baby heron
fell to the ground.
.
The words were written in bright yellow, and I could move them around with
my finger. But in a few seconds, the words would move back to their original
positions.
.
So I woke up with a prompt for a poem. I left the stanza exactly as it
was written on the wood in my dream. I can still see the words vividly in my
mind, including the semi-colon.
.
I wanted the poem to be about Genevieve. .But, as usual, the poem is taking
me where it wants to go.
.
Today, I remembered that an elderly lady once told me rosemary would
keep evil spirits away. I looked up some of the history of rosemary
superstitions online, and I read that it was also considered a “women’s
friendship” herb, and women used to always include it in their weddings. It
sort of freaked me out to read that after I wrote the poem. I hear the song
from X-Files playing.
.
One final thought. Why am I always a peasant? 😀
.
The Buffaloe Pen 