The Last Christmas My Daughter Won't Know About Sex

She says she doesn't want a boyfriend "because you have to pay him too much."
(She didn't hear that from me.) I hear her from upstairs, from the basement,
pursuing the perfect round—off, pound the floor, stick it. Ta—da! Chin high,
flattest chest extended, arms embracing applause from Olympic viewers

yet unborn. She doesn't know that once you sleep with him, you fall for him
harder, even if you shouldn't. She doesn't know she will be miserable
for at least a year after each person she loves so much dies. Santa's still invited
with cookies and notes, but eyed suspiciously by friends with older brothers.

She asks, about my dad, whom she called Gaboom, "If you're dead, can you think?
Can you dream? Can you move your arms? Can you open your Christmas presents?"
She hasn't thought twice why tomorrow and sorrow might rhyme. She doesn't get
why we change the story to "No more junkies jumping on the bed!" for laughs,

or why we giggled at the ghastly billboard in Delaware, "Hooters — Tuesdays!
Kids Eat Free!" She says, "You basically feel like you're reading a book
in your dream" and, bless her, "If I didn't have a crazy mom I would die."
And I think, damn, she could tame alligators, but not boys, with those eyes.



Glossary Translations From American Anthropology

I must name myself, and my people, choose the most important thing,
and it will become more so. I'll describe what we shall live up to,
and what you will know us by:

What we eat — honey, liver, pinenuts, roots.
Corn, buffalo, wild rice, man.
We will be corn gatherers, hominy people,
eaters of wild onion, bean, or bread.
We will call ourselves plenty of pollock.

What we are — true people, peaceful, well—mannered.
Hair people, most human of people, brave, pregnant,
ice people, true chiefs, lechers, ones who like to laugh.
Crooked—mouth people, scabby robes, genuine, hostile,
we the good people, men altogether red, people without bows.

What we do — those who listen and see. Basking in the sun
that warms your back. Campers at the opening of the circle.
Going in wet sand. Those who turn back. Those who scatter their own.
Those who roast until puckered up. Fire keepers, owners of the cup,
people going against the current. He stands about. I clear the thicket.

What we hunt — red crawfish, elk, dried salmon, white fish,
cat, porcupine, wolf, fox. People of the great hares, cry of the crane,
lives among beavers, where the partridge drums, count—the—stars, men of men.

Or you will know us by where we live — cave people, big water people,
filthy water people, long water country. Shadow people, people of the sun,
those living at the sunrise, where water boils up, dwellers at the end,
dwellers of the spirit lake, people of the great sacred high waters,
people on top of the hills, planters by water, sifters of surf.

But who are these constant acquirers, women of fat gut, living off
variegated land, owners of cars? Who are the cigarette people,
the men of the can, people of homes lit with blue flickering light?
What to say to those who visit stores for recreation, he who lies
with stepdaughter, she who leaves her children alone. Ask who are you,
where are you, what do you eat and hunt, what do you live by?

Ekleksographia:
Wave Two

November, 2009

Poems

Tina Kelley

Tina Kelley is a reporter at the The New York Times, where she runs a new blog for Maplewood, Millburn and South Orange. Her first book of poems, The Gospel of Galore, (Word Press, 2003) won a Washington State Book Award. She is looking for a publisher for her second collection, Slow Approach to a Bright Loud Room.