What I Remember of Wichita, Kansas
in honor of the passengers of American flight 5342, and Elwin
I did not come for camp, as many did. I came
because my husband and I both got jobs there
when we finished school. Pins on the map –
the only place where his and hers coincided.
It helped that my father grew up in Kansas, knew
how wheat swirled, the windmill spinning.
I did not skate there. I danced. I moved bodies
on stage. Men lifted women over their heads
and exchanged them in the air, while
a metronome pounded the beats of a heart.
This dance was called Transplant. It got
good reviews in the Wichita Eagle Beacon.
My father said we meet all planes. On holiday
I flew home to Washington -- the other
Washington. I arranged for a Pakistani student
to watch the house, feed the cat. On return,
I unpacked, then went to my typewriter.
A freshly rolled piece of paper: I love you.
I wrote my first poems in Wichita, Kansas.
My mentor came and watched me dance.
She wrote a poem about me dancing.
That got me started on a new love. I wrote
so many poems, I did not have time to read
the promised research on sabbatical.
The Dean was very understanding.
His twin brother had died of a heart attack
playing tennis, and I supported him
in his grief. He moved me, despite objections,
from the psychology department, to English.
That is where I met the Pakistani student.
My husband practiced tai chi for hours
in our living room to maintain balance.
The shag carpet under him, deep green
like the lawn on North Harding Street.
Out the sliding glass door, a pond.
The water lay dark, day and night.
My parents came to visit in Wichita,
Kansas. My mother made curtains
for the spare bedroom. My father rototilled
the garden, met the Dean. I planted corn
and beans, tomatoes and squash.
Onions, pumpkins, peas and carrots.
I did not hunt in Wichita, Kansas.
I did not hunt anywhere. But my brother
hunts, taught his daughters to shoot,
and my nephews, brother-in-law, uncle.
I’m glad he locks his guns in the basement.
I do not like the noise. I am fond of deer.
Before Kansas, my mother drove me to dance
and music lessons. She made sponge cakes
for birthdays. My grandmother wanted
to live to be one hundred. She reached
her goal, plus a bonus eight days,
while I was teaching in Wichita, Kansas.
Death can be hard to pinpoint –
impact, fire, fall, dark river.
Planes can collide in the night air.
So can partners in a marriage,
despite the flight plan. It can
take a while to recover the bodies.
© Carol Barrett
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Carol Barrett
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Carol Barrett has published three volumes of poetry, most recently READING WIND, and one of creative nonfiction, PANSIES. An NEA Fellow in Poetry, Carol supervises creative dissertations for both Antioch and Saybrook Universities.
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