Last night while I was reading poetry to myself, settling myself toward
sleep, I came across this poem.  It is written by Joy Harjo and can be
found in The Woman Who Fell From the Sky by Joy Harjo (New York: W.W.
Norton, 1994).  Some of you may already know that Joy Harjo is an
enrolled member of the Muscogee.  She performs her poetry and plays
saxophone with her band, Poetic Justice, and teaches at the University
of New Mexico.  She is also one of my favorite poets.
Perhaps the World Ends Here
by Joy Harjo
The world begins at a kitchen table.  No matter what, we must eat to
live.
The gifts of earth are brought and prepared, set on the table.  So it
has been since creation, and it will go on.
We chase chickens or dogs away from it.  Babies teethe at the corners.
They scrape their knees under it.
It is here that children are given instructions on what it means to be
human.  We make men at it, we make women.
At this table we gossip, recall enemies and the ghosts of lovers.
Our dreams drink coffee with us as they put their arms around our
children.  They laugh with us at our poor falling-down selves and as we
put ourselves back together once again at the table.
This table has been a house in the rain, an umbrella in the sun.
Wars have begun and ended at this table.  It is a place to hide in the
shadow of terror.  A place to celebrate the terrible victory.
We have given birth on this table, and have prepared our parents for
burial here.
At this table we sing with joy, with sorrow.  We pray of suffering and
remorse.  We give thanks.
Perhaps the world will end at the kitchen table, while we are laughing
and crying, eating of the last sweet bite.
As I read this poem, I found myself wondering about Indians and
kitchens. I remembered following my grandmother around the wood cook
stove and the scarred wooden table, watching her make cornbread and
frybread. Sometimes there was good corn soup or rabbit stew or baked
catfish.  I remembered her washing dishes in the dented old dish pan in
water so hot I was amazed it did not cook her fingers.  In the winter I
sometimes passed my hand through the steam and joyed in the warm
wetness.
"I want another Indian kitchen scene," I thought; and went searching
through my poems.  I found one:  Kitchen Sink by Ofelia Zepeda.  Zepeda
is a member of the Tohono O'Odham.  This poem can be found in Ocean
Power by Ofelia Zepeda (Tucson: University of Arizona Press, 1995)
Kitchen sink
by Ofelia Zepeda
The light from the kitchen-door window comes through in a special way.
I can see the seasons change in my kitchen sink.
The movement of the sun is shadowed in the sink.
During the afternoon the sink is full with sunlight.
Not necessarily a good time to be washing dishes.
Later in the summer there is a sense of urgency as the shadow gets
         longer and begins to slant
as the sunlight starts to edge out of the sink.
I pretend the sunlight is going down the drain.
The light cannot be stopped by the plug in the drain.
It seeps down around the inner seal where water cannot go,
becoming a part of the darkness that is always a part of drains and
          pipes.
Winter is coming.
The air is probably cooler already.
I know this because of my sink.
                      Sondra
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 þ SLMR 2.1a þ Anything worth doing is worth doing slowly. - G.E. Lee
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