Not the mental lethargy in which the days enveloped her Nor the depleted breasts not the hand that never knew tenderness nor eyes that glistened Not the people dragging canvas bags through the ragged fields Not the high mean whine of mosquitoes Not another year of shoe-top cotton No more white buck shoes for Henry No peaches this year on the Ridge, and no other elevation around to coast another mile out of the tank No eel in L'Anguille Not the aphrodisiac of crossing over Not the hole in the muffler circling the house Not a shot of whiskey before a piece of bread Not to live anymore as a distended beast Not the lying-in again Not the suicide of the goldfish Not the father's D.T's Not the map of no-name islands in the river Not the car burning in the parking lot Not the sound but the shape of the sound Not the clouds rucked up over the clothesline The copperhead in the coleus Not the air hung with malathion Not the boomerang of bad feelings Not stacks of poetry, long-playing albums, the visions of Goya and friends Not to be resuscitated and absolutely no priests, up on her elbows, the priests confound you and then they confound you again. They only come clear when you're on your deathbed. We must speak by the card or equivocation will undo us. Look into the dark heart and you will see what the dark eats other than your heart The world is not ineluctably finished though the watchfires have been doused more walls have come down more walls are being built Sound of the future, uncanny how close to the sound of the old At Daddy's Eyes "Pusherman" still on the jukebox Everybody's past redacted
From One With Others by C. D. Wright. Copyright © 2011 by C. D. Wright. Published by Copper Canyon Press. Used by permission of the publisher. All rights reserved.