The Rhizome as a Field of Broken Bones
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About this ebook
Margaret Randall
Writer and social activist Margaret Randall is the author of more than eighty published books, including To Change the World: My Years in Cuba (2009) and, most recently, As If the Empty Chair / Como si la silla vaca (a bilingual book of poetry) and First Laugh (essays). She lives in Albuquerque.
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The Rhizome as a Field of Broken Bones - Margaret Randall
The Rhizome as a Field of Broken Bones
From hops to orchids,
ginger to the sanctified bloom
we call Lily of the Valley
a horizontal stem
or root mass
moves beneath the ground,
feeling its way,
choosing where it will wake and rise
in yet another multiplying mirror
we hold to history.
The ancient Greeks gave us
this anatomy: rhizome
as key to vegetable resistance.
Utah’s Pando colony
of Quaking Aspen
a million years young.
Neither foragers, insects,
fungus nor fire
shatters the design
of its secret hiding place.
At this level of our fractal universe
elegant fern
and plebian Bermuda grass,
purple nut sedge
or obstinate poison oak
wait at trail edge
for the next hiker’s
bare legs:
all speak the language of rhizome
to our grateful ears.
We who see a field
of broken bones
view pale faces
on memory’s imprint
befriend the rhizome:
neither beginning nor end.
Balanced at midpoint,
it resists chronology
and we claim our place
as nomads on a savage map of risk.
Not linear narrative but radiant grid
where four dimensional images dance
and one rain forest butterfly
bloats a Kansas funnel cloud
with energy unmeasured
by the lab scientist
willing to consider
a million lives collateral damage,
intent only on his chance
at the big prize.
Imagine you are a child
in Phnom Penh,
the skulls creeping rootstalks,
one sprouting another
from its node
of ideology gone insane,
twenty sprouting a thousand,
two million, a landscape
where above ground and below
a single terror moves.
Pull your only legacy back
through Treblinka’s classrooms
where desperate teachers
help children wrap memory
paint freedom
on comforting squares of paper.
Wander among piles of shoes,
mountains of human hair,
each new node
an evil birthing.
Rest yourself in phantom Elazig,
now Turkey in denial,
where thousands of Armenians
lived and loved
before the genocide.
Contemplate the sharp edge
of a Rwandan machete
and try to remember if you
wielded the weapon or knew its steel
against your throat.
Enter this complex community
through its back door,
breach its rockiest border
and break the hold
steep systems of convention
have on you.
Open yourself to time
in every dimension.
Welcome a new home.
Today I am one more
body of water
filling available space,
trickling down
through fissure and gap
toward a new map,
eroding what stands in my way.
You may try to interrupt my dance
but your ugly language
leaves no signature.
La Llorona
It should come as no surprise.
I found her
by the banks of the San Antonio.
I know, you’d think she’d choose
the Rio Grande or Colorado
for her nightly walks:
rivers of strength and purpose,
dividing nations or raging
through the greatest canyon of them all.
But I knew
she preferred more intimate beauty.
I’d done my homework.
I almost didn’t hear her whispered wail
between the moan of freight trains
charging night
in that south Texas city.
I thought I discerned a minor key,
high harmony in late September
and followed the sound
notebook in hand,
sharpened pencil ready.
Around the bend she sat alone,
magnificent profile
hidden beneath her long black veil
I confused at first
with tree shadows in quiet air.
Almost midnight,
still high nineties.
Who could sleep?
I thought she might run
but she turned
slowly toward me,
seemed resigned to talk.
Gain her confidence: oral historian’s trick
before sympathy heated my blood
and for one brief moment
I felt what she felt
so many centuries before.
Do you mind if I sit, I trembled,
and she gave me to understand
scorn is a lonely companion,
she’d like the company.
Even legends
endure mistaken identity.
Fearful she’d fade in this Texas heat
I