Reclining
by Carmelita McGrath

When you are young and learn a word
you want to lie down in it
Reclining—its languid shape
suggests to me chaise
and other things we didn’t have to sit on.
I had an arm tanned and curved
that ended in a thin brown hand
that wanted to drape it self, reclining
on the curve of the old settee
in the house where I lived briefly as comfort child,
antidote to my grandfather’s lingering death.
Horsehair, that settee, or straw;
leather its cover or oilcloth
and the curve of its back a harp or heart.
First nights in the house
the present did not seem
so distant from the past.
Granda regaled us with storms
and squirting and squid,
dories tossed in the air on the big water, a great
sea-drama where a boy tore out and ate a live fish’s heart
and was cured of seasickness forever.
Then the salt, the gales, misleading fog played treachery.
Words mangled; my grandfather’s stories dissolved
into a storm that went on and on.
In the back room his bed tossed like a skiff
And he called for an end
even if it meant going under.
Those nights of pain I was away upstairs
in jungles where jaguars hid in emerald trees,
where a Pope expired relentlessly in a painting
and the weird sisters, hag and hag, laid
their bodies against mine and sucked my breath.
I was twelve then; one night I ran away
to home. They sent my younger sister in my stead.
After I thought of reclining in the parlour
on the old settee but felt
the weight of my grandfather’s death press on me.
It was there they waked him, in that corner
Where I’d imagined myself sprawled
Reading stories in leafy light.
But this afterimage clung there, as if the air
had photographed him reclining, chill and quiet.

Excerpt from:

As Long as the Rivers Flow

by Larry Loyie with Constance Brissenden

All day long, good smells came from the house as the family prepared for the gathering. As the guests arrived, Lawrence was surprised that he had so many aunts and uncles and cousins.

"Tell us about the grizzly bear," his cousins begged.

Finally the feast was ready. The table was covered with pots of moose stew and piles of freshbaked breads. Special foods like smoked fish and duck soup were cooked in honor of the elders and storytellers. Lawrence ate until he was stuffed.

After supper, family and guests settled comfortably outside on blankets around the fire. The storytelling began.

Uncle Louis stood up. He was tall and handsome. Everyone knew that he was the best storyteller around. Even the youngest children were quiet.

Uncle Louis stroked his bushy moustache before speaking.

"Once there was a man who walked in the four directions. He went north, south, east and west. He was a brave and seeking person who went from village to village learning all there was to know.

“He learned about new foods and how to cook them. In the prairies, he lived in tepees. In the cold lands, he lived in igloos.

“He saw waves of grass where the buffalo roamed. He tasted salty water where the sun rises and the sun sets. He came to dry lands where the sands were hot."

Lawrence saw himself in Uncle Louis’s story, walking every step ofthe way.

Now it was Aunty Rose’s turn. She told about three hunters who surprised a grizzly bear eating their moose.

"The hunters climbed high into the only tree around. It wasn’t very big or very strong. It started sagging until they were over the grizzly’s head. The bear took a swipe at them, but the hunters were just out of reach. They hung down from that tree like berries thick on a branch. They looked tasty, too."

Aunty Rose turned to Uncle Dave. "Weren’t you one of those hunters?" she asked.

"Oh, I was too skinny to tempt the bear,” Uncle Dave replied. “But you should have seen my cousin Otamuwin. He was sorry he had eaten so much. The bear was drooling at the sight of him."

Everyone laughed. Grandpa rose and called Lawrence to his side. "This is my grandson. Not many boys his age meet a grizzly bear or care for an owl. From now on, we will call him Oskiniko.”

The name meant Young Man. Lawrence stood proudly beside his grandpa. The firelight flickered on Grandpa’s gentle face. "This land has always given us what we need to live,” he said gravely. "Like they told us long ago, as long as the rivers flow, this land is ours. It is up to all of us to care for it. Now it’s your turn, grandchildren. The future is in your hands."

The stories continued long into the night. Lawrence’s eyes began to droop. Soon he fell asleep listening to the familiar voices. …

The day finally arrived. After breakfast, the children dressed in their best clothes. They stood close to Mama and Grandma. Grandpa put his arm around Grandma’s shoulders.

A big brown truck with high sides pulled up. Two men got out. They both wore black and looked like giant crows.

“Hurry up,” one of them said to the children loudly in English. "It’s time to get on the truck.”

The children pulled back, terrified of the stranger. Maruk clung to Mama’s skirt.

Papa spoke to Lawrence in their own language. “Be brave, Oskiniko. Take care of your younger sister and brothers."

The strange men lifted the crying children one by one on to the truck. Papa watched, his face angry, his fists clenched.

As the men closed up the back of the truck, Lawrence began to cry, too.

The sides of the truck were high. He couldn’t see his family. He couldn’t see Ooh-Hoo sitting in a tree. As the truck pulled away, all Lawrence could see was the sky.

As Long as the Rivers Flow, by Larry Loyie with Constance Brissenden.
Illustrations by Heather D. Holmlund.
Available from Groundwood Books, 2002.
www.groundwoodbooks.com

Community Writing & the Arts