What I Remember of Wichita, Kansas by Carol Barrett

 

Image | Steve Johnson

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, 

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

ihis 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 doora 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


Carol Barrett

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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