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POEM

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MY FATHER'S VISE

In my young years
It towered above me
Sacred - like an altar
Never far from view

He would stand
Before it
His work firmly clamped as
His hands carefully chose
Each tap
His mallet made against the chisel

Slowly revealing with every shave
Another layer
Another level
Closer to his creation

In his voice
In his hands
Echoed his reverence for this
Aromatic wood

He would share the perfume
Of the lignum vitae,
“wood of life”
With a pleasure I indulge today
When I rub a piece
To release the comforting smell

Through the years
Each of his children
Grew taller than the vise
Occasionally a form would emerge
Never - according to him - quite finished

Before I was born
He apprenticed with
Isamu Noguchi
There are few pieces
To show his talent

I received from the art collector
The mobile
On a base of lignum vitae
After my father died

He had traded it
For a Model A for my mother
Though she never learned to drive

My Aunt Simonne
Gave me a reclining bull
She retrieved from his trash can

Fighting demons with his work
My father took an ax
To every piece in his studio

Only recently I learned
He worked on Noguchi’s bas relief
At Rockefeller Center
I photographed my grandson
Posed in front of piece
The camera with the film
Was lost

YOUR SHOES

I look at your shoes today

long and narrow

I hold one in my hands

Smell the sweet mixture of

fine leather and light sweat

My fingers move slowly

across the soft worn surface

you have so carefully rubbed

with brown Kiwi over the years

I hear your firm footsteps

see your long stride

across our wooden floors

quickly up and down the stairs

on concrete

briskly down the street

You've walked life at an angle

against the wind

I see by the swirl

on the ball of the sole

that most of your turns are to the right

My left handed man

I love you

WORD POWER

How many words

would it take

to bring you

into my heart,

five

You choose them

How many words

would it take

to bring you

into my soul?

none

It is the silence

that opens that door

TWENTY SOMETHING

The tight monotone of her voice

tells you she is in control

as slight inflections

punctuate the tailored speech

With authority

she describes the latest show

at the Guggenheim

Her hair hangs ever so slightly

over her right eye

Casual intent

Everything by design

Gone

are her giggles

and the way she ran with abandon

across the sand bars

chasing seagulls and

pinching her

Papa on the nose

What is it

We grew up about

THE CLOTHESLINE 1954

Out on the Cape

My brother’s sear sucker shorts

the ones my mother bought through the Sears catalog

The table cloth, red & white checkered

blue jeans too thick to go through the wringer, all crinkled

hanging next to my grey poodle skirt from Aunt Simonne in New York

My sister Robin’s white blouse with lace collar

pillow cases that need to be ironed and our father’s handkerchiefs

There are the socks, wool that had to be washed by hand

blue work shirts, buttons that broke when they went through the wringer

How flat the clothes got, pressed by those rollers!

A pink rayon slip with adjustable straps that I am feeling so grown up to wear

In between – hidden from view - my first bra, blue

the one Barbara Dennis gave me (I am so thankful)

There are diapers, long white diapers by the score

and long sleeved baby t-shirts with tabs to pin the diapers to

There are little sweet pea nightgowns with a draw string on the bottom

And when the wind blew, blew all those clothes on that line

the family cloth, it sung like crazy

And when the frost came around, as it would every winter

those clothes, the lot of them, they froze up stiff

And could break in half just by the bending

That’s how brittle everything would get that time of year

REMEMBER ME

Remember me?

I am the one you chose

Above all others

The one you smiled at

so seductively

The one you held

through windy nights

With whom you lay open

upon the sand

Remember me?

I wore a green silk blouse

LEARNING TO RIDE

I wanted to ride

like the other kids

but our only bike

was my father’s two wheeler

a monstrous size

to my nine year old eyes

So in his usual style

he improvised

Taught me to put my leg

under the cross bar

Hold the bike to the side

in order to ride

He took me and the bike

up the end of the road

to a slight little knoll

gave it a shove

and just let us go

It took a couple of tries

But I soon got the knack

and was peddling my bike

like some acrobat

over the hills

up one and down

I was soon riding his bike

all around town

Gabrielle Rilleau

HEATWAVE

It was one of the hottest goddamned mornings ever

Nothing was moving that didn’t have to

Sweat was rolling down that crevice

Between my shoulder blades

as

I walked directly down the sidewalk

Three sit on a stoop of low income apartments

caught in escalating conversation

All unshaved and raspy

Showing

just showing who they are

They talk pistons and politics

Mix them up like tossed salad

They were so

intense

Around the corner

These two in front of me pushing a swanky stroller

slowly, like a hot day makes you do

Her legs shaved clean as could be

Showing

just showing who she was

They were so

casual

They eye a bench for sale at Finders Keepers

She tells him it would look good in their front yard

I picture it in a field of high grasses and wild flowers

Full of ticks

just full of ticks

Gabrielle Rilleau

Half a Winter Moon

Half a winter moon

Held in the sky

Cradled in the bough

Of the leafless

Cherry tree

Oh

What a night

To be held!

-.-

GUM TRAGACANTH

It came in large white flakes

like hardened Ivory Snow

And I loved to ask the clerk

behind the counter

at Cutlers Pharmacy

for a quarter pound

of gum Tragacanth please

as though asking simply

for a jar of Vicks Vapo Rub

Inevitably

I was asked to repeat

so I got to say

that wonderful name again –

gum tragacanth

My tongue savoring its final thrust

Of course the clerk

would have to call to the pharmacist

making it so much more mysterious

I wonder did they wonder

what we used it for

And I would skip down the sidewalk

back to the shop

brandishing the small brown bag

containing a quarter of a pound of

gum tragacanth (skip)

gum tragacanth (hop)

gum tragacanth (skip)

rhythm to the steps

of a nine year old

so proud to be the only kid in town

to know the word

gum tragacanth

gum tragacanth

gum tragacanth

The dictionary says:

tragos, goat. Gum Tragacanth , a white or reddish, tasteless and odorless gum,

used in pharmacy, calico printing, etc. , any of various, esp. Asiatic, plants of the pea family, yielding this gum.

My mother had told me it came from the inside of goats ears,

this treasured secret that we mixed with water to a smooth paste and then with a denim rag, spread on the edges of a sandal strap or belt edge, pulling it firm until we had a strong hand burnished edge. My parents, among other things, were leather artists.

Gabrielle Rilleau 09/29/04

TAKE OFF YOUR DUNGAREE JACKET

I give my mother the

dungaree jacket

and I don’t say

a word as

she slips it on

and stands just

so

It takes me back

fifty years to

when her hair

was raven and thick

and she also wore

a dungaree jacket

and stood

just so

with her hand

on the screen door

coming out of

the place on Long Nook Road

Her tongue on the

tip of her teeth

We have the photograph

She’s about

to close the door

but just before

she pauses

behind the screen

you can see

There is still the

possibility

That they will

not part

they will pull

their life together

find answers

fifty years done now

Our eyes meet

she buttons up the jacket

I don’t say a word

*words to an old sea chantey

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