east hill 2

in the house they called east hill
built in 17hundred and something
we roomed
2 others
myself all in a room
a triple they called it
where they housed us
the poor ones
segregated
as it were
the mormon, the black girl from chicago,
and me
housed and contained

Marie had a record player
we played Shaft
over and over again
and jen read her prayer book
blushing for us
while we danced and sang the songs
along with isaac
we were so cool
shut your mouth
so cool

displaced
disenfranchised
we were living
in east hill
the farm house on the side of east hill
which pastures were used for hay in summer
upon which an herd of beautiful black angus endured in winter,
Jen from denver, marie from chicago, and me

In the deep winter when the snow was high and there was a frozen crust on it so thick and hard it would hold your weight
(you could walk on (frozen) water)
you heard the cattle crunch around in the pasture outside your window
black shadows in the snowy field

the silent night under the brilliant moon whose reflected light was mirrored back in each
crystalized snow flake-dazzling holy light
brilliant and sacred

The house had another part where the dorm parents resided.
it had a separate door and a kitchen where they ate their meals when they were not required to be in the dining hall. They were separate. Civilized and remote.

East Hill had one more room where no one lived, on the north east side of the house,
a studio with a cot,
artifacts,
supplies in boxes, collected with an intention for use in art projects.
it was more of a vignette of a studio than a real studio.
No one made art there.
There was no smell of paint or linseed oil. No clay nor fallen bits of charcoal.

No artist occupied it.

The cot had an antique quilt upon it, faded soft and worn. Sometimes at night that winter, I stole there,
into that chilly room,
and wrapped myself in that tattered quilt and dreamed that it was mine,
the quilt, the studio,
east hill and the holy illuminated night.
I dreamed that I could stay.