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People study the dingy chenille clouds for a sign.
People did what they have done.
A town, a time, and a woman who lived there.
And left undone what they ought not to have did.
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I take one more drive across town thinking about the retired welding teacher easing over that rise seeing the parking lot full of white men. I wonder if he thought he would die in the jungle [where no Vietcong ever called him [N-word] ] or he would die in front of the bowling alley [without ever having been inside] or die in the swimming pool [without ever having been in it, except when drained, and the police had him in their sights]. Or if, because he was a young man, he would never die. I attach V to my driving-around thoughts.
An object unworthy of love she thought she was.
It was a cri de coeur.
Those of our get had given her a nom de guerre: V.
A simple act, to join a march against fear
down an old military road.
We were watching an old movie the night
the table started walking toward us
and there was trouble on Division.
She became a disaffiliated member [of her race].
I'm one of them now, she said, upon release
from jail. I am an invader.
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
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For me
it has always been a series of doors:
if one is opened precipitously a figure is caught bolting from bed
if another, a small table, a list of demands on school paper
if another, a child on the linoleum, saying she wants a white doll
a woman sitting on a bed, holding a folded flag
a shelf of trophies behind her head
an ironing board, bottle of bourbon on the end
sewing machine on a porch
To walk down the road without fear
To sit in a booth and order a sweet soft drink
To work at the front desk
To be referred to as Gentleman
To swim in the pool
To sit in the front row and watch Run Wild, Run Free [next week: Death of a Gunfighter]
To make your way to the end of the day with both eyes in your head
Nothing is not integral
You want to illumine what you see
Fear reflected off an upturned face
Those walnuts turning black in the grass
It is a relatively stable world
Gentle Reader
But beyond that door
It defies description
A girl on the stairs listens to her father Beat up her mother. Doors bang. She comes down in her nightgown. The piano stands there in the dark Like a boy with an orchid. She plays what she can Then she turns the lamp on. Her mother's music is spread out On the floor like brochures. She hears her father Running through the leaves. The last black key She presses stays down, makes no sound Someone putting their tongue where their tooth had been.
Some nights I sleep with my dress on. My teeth are small and even. I don't get headaches. Since 1971 or before, I have hunted a bench where I could eat my pimento cheese in peace. If this were Tennessee and across that river, Arkansas, I'd meet you in West Memphis tonight. We could have a big time. Danger, shoulder soft. Do not lie or lean on me. I'm still trying to find a job for which a simple machine isn't better suited. I've seen people die of money. Look at Admiral Benbow. I wish like certain fishes, we came equipped with light organs. Which reminds me of a little known fact: if we were going the speed of light, this dome would be shrinking while we were gaining weight. Isn't the road crooked and steep. In this humidity, I make repairs by night. I'm not one among millions who saw Monroe's face in the moon. I go blank looking at that face. If I could afford it I'd live in hotels. I won awards in spelling and the Australian crawl. Long long ago. Grandmother married a man named Ivan. The men called him Eve. Stranger, to tell the truth, in dog years I am up there.
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