Poems by Ingrid Wendt
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Connecting the Dots
Tree of the big, black berries in every stage of temptation Tree of Kiskadee and Dove, of mating and blooming and crooning Whose grandeur I once, in a time of great privilege, gazed down upon daily Tree whose given name no one could tell me, brought down During my too-long absence from this strip of Yucatán jungle Edged by sea – my heart’s second home – to make Room for three new mansions, and not only Tree Gone but soon the small, sprawling hotel where I stayed. Today, from a nearby apartment, I see it toppling piece by piece by Chisel, by shovel, sledgehammer, drill: cheap labor but good Work I’m told, for those descended from the ancestral Maya Whose sacred land this used to be Before it was bought out from under them Workers who live in dirt-floor homes across the highway Tree just one more remnant of all that was broken to make Room for people like me, today putting up with The banging and slamming and screeching of demolition Tree felled easily, after its roots were set on fire Tree whose long, slow, cruel death Slaps this feckless heart right smack in the face. Still Learning Some say that sticking a name onto anything wild takes away its wonder. But I say naming’s a form of respect. Hello, I see you. Okay if I linger? And when, with face mask and snorkel, I once again trade life’s daily clutter for rapture of coral and reef—warm and easy as once I hung in the palm of conception-- the names of fish I’ve met before, in books and in person, rise unbidden, to my buckled-up tongue: Stoplight Parrotfish, Angelfish, Slippery Dick-- those that wiggle and those that dart, those that glide or simply hang in place on every level: mobiles of Sergeant Majors, bursts of firework flowers refusing to fade, not even when squadrons of big Blue Tang cruise by. Fish who go solo, just below water’s top lid--Hello, Needlefish. Fish who sway in clusters, under overhangs--Hello, Squirrelfish. Fish whose names, in the absence of inner chatter, expand, expand, Pufferfish, Triggerfish, Goatfish, Grouper, ethers of pure electricity, rapture, bliss, though bliss can carry the feet where they do not belong, like right smack dab on top of a long, flat, limestone shelf I took for very own swim fin landing and launching pad—brushing off the gentle nip-nips of the fist-shaped, cocoa brown Damselfish who—according to PBS “Nature,” last night—was maybe signaling, Hey, Human, those flippers are crushing my very own harvest of algae—so busy was I with steadfastly, dumbly, intoning the sweet, sweet grace of her name. |
Ingrid Wendt's first book of poems, Moving the House, was selected by William Stafford for BOA Editions' New Poets of America Series. Her next three books won the Oregon Book Award, the Yellowglen Award, and the Editions Prize. Co-editor of two anthologies, she has taught at all educational levels, including the MFA program of Antioch, Los Angeles and as a three-time Fulbright professor in Germany. A musician by training and avocation, and a recipient of grants and awards from the Cultural Ministry of Munich, the D.H. Lawrence Foundation, the Oregon Arts Commission, Literary Arts, and others, Ingrid’s fifth book is Evensong. A new chapbook, Keeping It All Afloat, will appear in 2026. She lives in Eugene, Oregon. https://ingridwendt.com
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