Poems From Providence - The Poet's Press

You did not know the gourd was hollow.
You did not ask what was in it!
Do not inquire, O Lake our mother.
We have promised never to tell you!
The gourd had passed a year in the longhouse.
Each mother who lost an infant held it
until the stream of her tears had dried.
The father who watched the forest trail
for the sight of the hunting party
clenched it and wept for his eldest son.
(They spoke of wolves at the council fire.)
In years of war or famine the gourd was heavy.
Women put beads or locks of hair inside it,
stained it with rust and blueberry paint.
Feeble ones took it when their memory failed;
it calmed the mad to sleep beside it.
Unburdened now of the Gourd of Sorrows
the Eries leave the forgiving lake,
wash off their paint, their red-brown
faces young with laughter and courage,
their eyes as bright as the ardent sun,
their strong legs running, running.
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