Blue Birds Read Online Free PDF

1587

KIMI
    I tell Mother I harvest berries
    and return with enough
    that she won’t suspect
    I deceive her.
    Two days pass
    and the girl doesn’t come,
    my wooden bowl less full
    each time I enter our village.
    The attack
    has taught her
    to keep her distance.
    I should do the same.
    Turn from her now,
    I tell myself.
    The English only know
    to take from us,
    add to our sorrow.
    Our seed corn they ate,
    stealing from a future planting.
    Our families crushed with disease,
    then stripped away.
    Alawa.
    Wingina.
    Even Uncle
    they took and changed.
    But I am like a moth
    dancing near a flame.
    Though there is danger,
    I’m drawn ever closer.
    The girl.
    I hope she comes again.

Alis
    I haven’t left the settlement
    since Mr. Howe was found.
    Only those
    collecting wood,
    hunting game,
    unloading cargo from the ships
    may now leave through the gate.
    So many worry
    we’re unsafe,
    even here in the village.
    I cannot escape the memories
    of Father and the others
    holding Mr. Howe’s limbs,
    his back riddled with arrows,
    the pain
    of losing Uncle Samuel.
    The Roanoke are the only tribe
    who live on the island as we do.
    They are responsible
    for my grief,
    the fears that fester here.
    Yet I have not forgotten the girl.
    I circle the village,
    go no farther.
    Hemmed in,
    safe and staid.

KIMI
    If I could ask Wanchese
    I’d say:
    Why do they dress as they do?
    To speak their language,
    does it feel as it sounds,
    like sharpened rocks on your tongue?
    What makes their skin
    the color of a snake’s underside?
    Why do the men
    not keep their faces smooth
    but grow hair from their cheeks?
    Do they ever bathe?
    For their strong odor lingers
    long after they’ve gone.
    Though they
    have brought us heartache,
    must all of them
    be enemies?

KIMI
    I go to the place
    where we first met
    and wait,
    until the shadows lengthen,
    until the sun dips low.
    Before leaving,
    I pick flowers,
    lay them at the base of a tree.
    She will come
    and see them,
    know I’ve been here.

Alis
    Once,
    Joan whispered
    she longed to sleep amongst the clouds,
    like the moon when it rests
    in the sky’s cupped hands.
    I tried not to laugh
    at her outlandish ways.
    And yet,
    how ordinary life is
    without a bit of fancy,
    without a pinch of daring
    to fill our days.

Alis
    I have managed not to wake my parents.
    I am not needed for another hour.
    At first,
    I walk along the perimeter of the village
    but it is not enough,
    merely skirting the border.
    My thoughts return
    to the marsh grass trek
    when we first came,
    the dappled tree trunks
    where the shoreline ends
    at red bark stretching high.
    A breeze dances around me.
    I hold my damp plait from my neck.
    Everything has been so still for days;
    this welcome breath of air
    entreats me to follow.
    I could go back for just a minute,
    just one small snatch of time.
    Governor White’s warnings,
    the sun-bleached bones,
    Mr. Howe’s arrow-pierced body
    press into my mind,
    the Indians that surely lie in wait.
    And Uncle,
    always Uncle.
    But the green world calls,
    cool and inviting.
    He would understand.
    Uncle’s bird is out there.
    The only piece of him I possess
    I have managed to lose.
    I check
    recheck
    for any movement
    in the guardhouse,
    breathe a silent prayer,
    fight against my worries,
    and rush forward.
    I keep
    the settlement at my back,
    the forest ahead.
    The girl in the wood.
    Will I see her again?

Alis
    She is not here
    amidst the branches full of fragrant needles
    made richer in this sprinkling rain,
    the red trunk dressed in moss,
    its bark a bolder hue in dampness,
    but at my feet
    a wilted posy
    of starflowers.
    I lift them to me,
    bury my face in their petals,
    this offering.
    It is too early.
    Usually I’ve seen her
    past mid-afternoon.
    I take the ribbon from my plait,
    weave it around the stems.
    I will come back,
    the flowers say.

Alis
    I wonder what Joan would think
    of the Indian girl,
    how my loneliness has lessened
    in knowing she