Born in Richmond, Indiana, Barb Schwegman has made Bloomington her home for over 40 years. Graduating from DePauw University in 1974, she has worked various jobs from a dishwasher to a kindergarten teacher in a local school. She has been writing for over 40 years and the poems to be read are from her two published books, Poems of Central America and Nightwalking.

Welcome to the Poets Weave, I'm Romayne Rubinas Dorsey. Barb, what poems have you brought for us today?

Memory of Water

I think of you as my arm rises over my head
to cut through the lake water around me.
I see your graceful movements.
You swimming freely beside me,
teaching me the side stroke, the crawl.

Your face was released of tension then.
Your children and their troubles far away
as you stroked back and forth,
back and forth across the quarry,
as if clear water was your home, your safety.

The last time I remember swimming with you was years ago.
I sat next to you on the beach,
healing from my first broken heart.
Too scared to talk to you about it.

Too scared to talk to you about it.
You said little, but just enough.
We were two women then
and I was pleased to be your daughter
as we swam easily together.
---------------
Night Walking

Tonight is as Indiana
as my parents dancing to Stardust.

Streets are Midwestern and humid.
I walk.

Memories pool in alleyways.
I have been a small town girl for 34 years.

East Coast friends saying Hoosier blood is too thick.
I say, "listen," as the whistle rush of an Indiana train walks me back home again.
---------------
Basketball

At 10, I am tall enough to make a basket from anywhere on my side of the court.
I know how to dribble and shoot,
how to stand, guard, and fake
how to bend at the waist, eye my opponent,
and take the ball down the court.

When the tips of the leaves are just changing color,
I shoot baskets in the alley with my dad.
We take turns spelling HORSE with our missed shots.
He is too old to run past me and jump in the air for a slam dunk.
Too fragile after his heart attack.
But he does anyway.

When my mother sees him,
she yells at him from the back porch,
"Lee, cut that out!"
He waits until she is out of sight,
runs and shoots again.
I take his lead and for a while
the two of us are together,
playing one-on-one
until his face turns red and I get scared.

In high school, I don't join the team.
Instead, I watch my friend with the dark hair and dazzling smile,
run up and down the court,
shoot the winning point,
sweat with the other girls.
She yells at me from the floor
and I flush red with embarrassment and envy.

Now I watch my oldest niece,
tall and lithe,
move down the court with grace.
She jumps in the air easily to slam dunk the ball.
There is no doubt,
she is good.

My other niece,
the one with my father's smile,
shoots baskets with me in the driveway.
She teaches me the moves she is learning.
How to pivot, how to fake,
How to pass.

The March air is chilly.
The buds are just beginning to burst into blossom.
I pull my jacket around me,
take the ball to the foul line,
and shoot.

You’ve been listening to the poetry of Barb Schwegman on the Poets Weave. I’m Romayne Rubinas Dorsey.