Being moored
Rochelle Mass
I thought a totem pole was God when I was young, I dared come closer
rarely touched, but when I did, I remember rough parts
and feeling scared. Size mattered then: faces towered over me
scowling, laddered one on the other, more at the top, then
the bottom. Wings in the center spread out farther
than I could reach. The colors weren't from my childhood rainbow.
Reds were rusted and heavy, greens tough
as old grass, and blacks scratched blacker by weather.
I wanted to get to the message behind the eyes, release secrets.
My father once asked me: why do you nod at them?
He couldn't understand, even though he could draw
the best hawk I'd ever seen, but he couldn't see the moon
above the eyes, the canoe on the shoulder, the thunderbird beaks
in the middle. He'd tell me how they were carved, what tools used.
I wanted to know the chants the elders hummed
while they worked, watch the chief pull back the cedar bark
strip the trunks smooth. Wanted to see the rabbit's fur on his jacket
for good luck and the abalone shells on his headband flash
back to the sun. My father told me how strong a carver had to be
and honor received for his work. But I heard vowel sounds of tribal dances
watched spinning capes. I raised my face to their God
as they tossed feathers of down on the earth to bless the place.
My father talked about craft, I wanted to spiral down
into the belly of the moon, settle into the bow of the canoe
hold tight to the thunderbird's wing, soar with the abalone shells
to where the Gods really are. In winter my feet would stand in leaves.
The totemed faces stared back, mouths strained for spring and
I wore gloves. On spring days the sun opened what winter had split.
The last time I was there I didn't take my father along, didn't
want his analogies to the ancient rites of other peoples
his technical suggestions. Thunder clapped behind me
startled the pigeons and left me shaking.
My favorite totem at Kitsilano Beach, by the shore, stood firm
with peeled patches and splaying cracks.
No varnish smoothed the splinters.
The thunder rumbles down and I am moored again.
