two poems by Vivian Prescott
Aftershock
The earth beneath our small bodies softened
and, when the shaking stopped,
only our breath remained speaking to the hush
of hemlocks in the grove behind us.
It was this split in the firmament: the place
where silence goes, caught
in a time-wave patterning sound no-sound sound
that at once swallowed us up,
only to spit us out crackling over creek rocks,
gulls screeching through mist,
our own muffled bawls
shrieking to laughter.
Young Woman Is Carried Away by Frog People
For my niece, Kiks.ádi yadí, Frog Woman
She was carried away to live with the Frog People
Who lived in a pond at the end of the road.
Pulled a slick green blanket over her body,
Sat knees bent with a wide-lipped grin.
She lives in a pond at the end of the road,
Dancing a new shape with a flip of her hood,
Wide-set knees and a bent-lipped grin,
Abalone buttoned eyes scattering pond light.
She shapes her dance with a flip of her hood
In the myth that makes her disappear,
Scattering abalone buttoned light across the pond
In a ten-dollar show at the tribal house.
In the disappearance that made her myth,
Her body stretched in a slick green skin
At the tribal house ten-dollar show,
She gets carried away dancing with Frogs.