Canyons Echo Grandma
for my voices
I remember those winter nights Grandma
Would tell me stories about Coyote.
He would try to trick the lizards,
Or rabbit, or try to steal lightning
From Father Sun's home beyond the canyons
To the East. The wind carries through corn
Stalks the sound of our voices singing corn
Songs for the harvest. We pick as Grandma's
Voice comes back in echo from her canyons.
Tonight the full moon stirs one lone coyote
Howling an answer, and above, lightning
Bugs glitter the August sky. A lizard
Hopes a moth will flutter to his forked lizard
Tongue. Hungry and tired from picking corn,
We fill the truck full of green ears lightning-
Fast, as the sweet smells coming from Grandma's
Fire roasting mutton quickens the coyotes'
Sharp barks for her cooking. The canyons
Magnify their barks whining; the canyons
Seem alive with night voices: owls, lizards
That silence sharp crickets, more coyotes
Joining in chant, someone shucking ripe corn,
Grandpa coughing, children pitching screams, Grandma
Trying to quiet them. Finally with lightning's
Shatter, she scolds them. "We don't run in lightning
Storms and we don't yell at night--the canyons
Can hear you. Their echoes," explains Grandma,
“Can conjure up the bad spirits. Lizard
Monsters and skinwalkers could be in the corn-
Fields. Be quiet, and don't be like Coyote.”
The children are silent with fear--Coyote
Stories always do that. My fear of lightning
Comes from those old stories. I smile. The corn
Harvest is done and I know these canyons
Are alive with my voices: from lizards
Running across the clay desert to Grandma
Kneading tortilla dough. I know Coyote
Is out there in the darkness, like lightning
Waiting to strike, hoping to steal our corn.
© 2005
by Hershman John.
First published in Family Matters: Poems of Our Families
Huron, Ohio: Bottom Dog Press, 2005. 166-7