Wednesday, December 31, 2008
I've got wooden eggs in a wire hen hanging in my kitchen.
One egg, from Germany, has a few letters of the alphabet
on it. It was designed by a group of Gypsy women because
they were losing their language.
I have a speckled egg, an egg with dalmatian spots,
a cedar egg, an Italian glass egg from Venice,
a Russian egg, an Easter egg, a carnelian
Chinese egg with a carved design.
The yard is full of trees. The wire hen is full of eggs.
Stoic eggs. Eggs of faith. I have a geometric beaded egg
from a Peyote culture, the beads held with beeswax.
Jagged reds and greens as trees in the yard.
As old gasoline pumps. The trees step out of fields.
The cows and crops move over.
There is a blue reindeer with jags of lightning.
My spurs jangle as I pump gas.
I am a marginal voice in several worlds. I can tell
several stories at once. Mixed-blood stories of academic
life and the experience of Christianity. Nothing fitting
with anything else. The word community has always meant
being left out. But in the cold-and-hunger dance, the
voice is one story holding the disparate parts.
Questia Media America, Inc. www.questia.com
Publication Information: Book Title: The Cold-And-Hunger Dance. Contributors: Diane Glancy - author. Publisher: University of Nebraska Press. Place of Publication: Lincoln, NE. Publication Year: 1998.