Glad to Be Gone
I ran through the rain,
the rest huddled in oilcloth
or canvas,
afraid, each one,
of wind and rain.
I love
the needles on my face,
the wind under my dress,
my hair strung out behind.
No one knows the confinement
of woman, sitting,
standing, bustled and trussed,
never allowed to run—sometimes
to dance demure.
I was the only one
who never wept for home.
I scream into the wind,
race after cattle,
pluck the black river fruit,
and reach so high my waist tears,
and no one can say
I’m not a lady.
Last night I washed clothes
in the moonlight, the river
soft and dark. I
dove, the water black—
streaming, the light
on my body.
I cried for its newness.
Now I watch
the canvas flap in the wind,
and I, like a sailor,
joyed at the rigging.
the slap and rush of the wind,
the land a wild sea
ahead.
by Ann Turner
from Grass Songs- Poems of Woman’s Journey West
Harcourt Brace, 1993