Jackson 5, Culture Club, Whitney Houston,
Deniece Williams back up the deep-
voiced, juke joint, Midwestern-raised
Girl.
Catfish, crab legs, and chitlins
served on three-generation China.
Great Lakes, mason jars, fried pies,
and Mary Jane–wearing Girl.
Stained glass Sundays, training wheels,
wind, and a wide nose, thick plait, nappy back,
dimple in each cheek Girl.
Heiress of big legs, triple hip,
raised eyebrow, silver dollars,
dusty maps, and a diamond bracelet
Papa gave the day you graduated
eighth grade, and he said young lady
but hugged you like his little
Girl.
The only daughter
of an only daughter left;
the keeper of ash and memory,
curtsies and curiosity,
Easter poems, skinned knees,
polyester, silk, and calamity
Girl
stays close, superstitious,
sassy and studied.
Know better in your gathered years
of woman, grown, change-filled
coffee cans, kitten heels, cat calls,
and collateral, Girl is forever.
Let that Girl settle between new grays,
laugh-out-loud lines, and the sand
of her hourglass filling with fierce
each newborn day.
Girl stays forever.
I
What would happen if one woman told the truth about her life? The world would split open.
MURIEL RUKEYSER
DEFINITION
Parnassus [pα:næs
n
1. a mountain in central Greece, just north of Delphi, that rises to a height of 8,064 feet (2,457 m). Held to be sacred by the ancient Greeks, it was associated with Apollo and the Muses and was regarded as a symbol of poetry. Greek name Parnassós.
2. (Literature / Poetry)
a. the world of poetry
b. a centre of poetic or other creative activity
3. (Literature / Poetry) a collection of verse or belles lettres
Parneshia [par: knee: she a]
n
1. 1980—daughter of high school sweethearts (prom queen and football captain). Father,
a Creole southern rolling stone, watches an old Greek movie, hears the word Parnassus. Father told it to Mother. Mother, first generation Northerner, couldn’t understand what Father was saying (Greek doesn’t roll easy off the Creole tongue). Mother shaped the word herself while baby moved about in her belly.
2. (Woman / Poet)
a. rooted in her Midwest, in her poetry
b. growing up in Mama’s kitchen and stacks of dusty books
3. (Woman / Poet) twenty years later, the Poet searches the definition of her name…who knew
NAIAD
A philosopher asked, If you could have one super power what would it be?
When I was a little girl,
I spoke indigo—
birthed with gills passed
down from sea women.
I spoke indigo in my dreams.
My laughs and grandmother’s
sweet water lullabies conjured waves.
I spoke indigo in my prayers,
praying for family and fins,
hoping my knobby brown knees
would morph into sienna scales
with fins of fuchsia.
I spoke indigo to my kin.
My grandmother’s oceanic tongue
whispered in my seashell ears
our saltwater stories.
I wish for those little girl
sea lungs, pink as petals
blooming in rain.
I wish for the little girl
who dreamed in aquamarine,
the taste of a saltwater speech,
the nautical native tongue
speaking the language of the sea.
“FAIR TRADE”
During recess, Mary and I
carved our names into the dirt.
Mary,
such an easy, whimsical name.
Short.
I like short.
I watched Mary begin
with a mighty-shouldered M,
her angelic A, the R reaching
for the Y I always wanted.
MARY.
Short and sweet.
A name you never tire of writing.
I never had it that easy.
I could never find my name
on those miniature license plates.
No namesake characters on TV
or Bibled in verse. No Parneshia
had a little lamb.
PARNE…
Mary skipped around,
already finished with her four letters.
I was still on letter five of nine,
tired by E,
my arm aching the question,
why this name? Why so long?
Ask your mother, why such a riddle of a name?
PARNESHI…
Leaving off the final A,
I stared at Mary’s crooked name
sprawled in the dirt.
Hey Mary, want to trade names?