Flying Out With the Wounded 9780814790137

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plying Out with the

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New Yor k Universit y Pres s gratefull y acknowledge s th e suppor t of Madelin e an d Kevi n Brin e i n making thes e award s possible.

• The New York University Press Prizes for Fiction and Poetry • In 1990, New York University Press launched the Bobst Awards for Emerging Writers to support innovative, experimental, an d important fiction and poetry. A s the prestige o f the awards has expanded in recent years, so too has their mandate. The awards were originall y conceive d t o publis h author s whos e wor k ha d not yet appeare d i n book form . W e now includ e author s who, while often alread y a known quantity, remain unrecognized relative to the quality and ambition of their writing. We hav e thu s rename d th e award s th e Ne w Yor k Universit y Press Prize for Fiction and the New Yor k University Pres s Prize for Poetry . I n 1996 , th e juror s selecte d Jan e Ransom' s novel , Bye-Bye, an d Anne Caston' s collection of poems, Flying Out with the Wounded.

plying 1 Out with the

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AlTWfj, CASTON NEW YORK

UNIVERSITY

New York

PRESS

and London

NEW YOR K UNIVERSIT Y PRES S New Yor k and Londo n Copyright © 199 7 b y Ne w Yor k Universit y All right s reserve d Library o f Congres s Cataloging-in-Publicatio n Dat a Caston, Anne , 1953 Flying out wit h th e wounde d / Ann e Caston . p. cm . ISBN 0-8147-1561- 3 (clot h : alk. paper).—ISB N 0-8147-1560- 5 (pbk. : alk. paper ) I. Title . PS3553.A8149F58 199 7 96-4590 3 8 i r . S 4 —dc2 1 CI P New Yor k Universit y Pres s book s ar e printe d o n acid-fre e paper , and their bindin g material s ar e chose n fo r strengt h an d durability. Manufactured i n th e Unite d State s o f Americ a 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2

CONTENTS

Acknowledgments

ix

GRAVEYARD SHIFT Anatomy 3 Casualties 6 Search & Rescue: Yukon Territory, 198 1 1

1

Graveyard Shif t 1

2

Kyrie 1

4

The Burne d Bo y 1

7

Flying Ou t wit h the Wounde d 1

8

My Patient Jumps to Hi s Death 2

0

Warming the Bloo d 2

2

The Las t Lobotomized Woma n 2

3

Hands 2

6

Mercy 2

7

Heartwood 2

9

LESSONS

When I Am No t Tellin g It 3

3

The Burnin g 3

4

My Father's House 3

7 v

vi / Contents With Baptists

39

First Rebellion, 19S 9

40

The Boo k

42

Stumbling into a Pecan Grov e a t Midnight Just after th e Lynchin g

44

Bloodline

46

In the Tub Tonight, M y Son

48

At Passover

50

Suicide Note s

52

AfterLife

53

To the Woman in the Next Be d Whose Daughte r Was Born with Down' s Syndrom e th e Da y My Daughter wa s Bor n Dea d

56

Waiting Roo m

58

Last Lullaby for th e Dea d Chil d

61

Lessons

62

Since You Asked

64

Hunger

66

Keeping Watch

68

God's Head

75

THE ONES WHO COME Bells 7

9

On the Subjec t o f the Poo r in America 8

0

After th e Sieg e 8

2

Contents / vi i The One s Wh o Com e 8

4

Refugee Scene s 9

0

In the Yea r of Ou r Lor d 9

2

I, of the Stor m 9

4

This Morning, Alice , You r Boots 9

5

Eye for a n Eye 9

7

Red 9

9

Lizard Whiskey: A Parting Gift fro m Vie t Nam 10

1

The Man Who Stay s Sane 10

3

Sunday Brunch at The Old Country Buffet 10

6

Perennials 10

7

Gardens 10

9

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Grateful acknowledgmen t i s mad e t o th e followin g publica tions i n whic h thes e poems , o r earlie r version s o f them , appeared: Connections: "Graveyar

d Shift " "Children of Holocausts " Explorations '96: "Flyin g Out wit h th e Wounded " "The Burned Boy" Free Lunch: "Stumblin g into a Pecan Grov e at Midnight Just after th e Lynching " Maryland Poetry Review: "Tumor " New York Quarterly: "Anatomy " Permafrost: "Lessons " The Potomac Review: "Graveyar d Shift " River Styx: "Lizar d Whiskey : A Parting Gif t from Vie t Nam" My personal acknowledgmen t an d appreciation goe s als o to St . Mary' s Colleg e o f Marylan d an d th e Universit y of Wisconsin-Madiso n fo r th e generou s suppor t an d encouragement the y have provided fo r m e a s a writer, to the St . Mary' s County Art s Counci l fo r a grant whic h enabled m e t o pursue thi s work , to Hilar y Tha m an d Bo b Ayer s fo r thei r insight s an d suggestions o n this manuscript, IX

x / Acknowledgments

to m y teachers : Joa n Aleshire , Grac e Cavalieri , Lucill e Clifton, Michae l Glaser , Mari e Howe , Pabl o Medina , Thomas Sexton , an d Ellen Bryan t Voigt, to Ke n Flynn, and to my husband, Ia n Gallimore.

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ANATOMY

When Ha l Pingl e wa s thirty minute s lat e I walked t o the long , windowe d wal l along the back of the Anatom y Lab and passed myself back and fort h through the dul l midwinter afternoo n ligh t watching how th e dus t mote s scattered the n closed agai n behind. Outside th e sno w ha d begun; the courtyard wa s a muffle o f voices. In the unli t center o f the room, a wheeled gurney: a cadaver, covere d wit h clea r plastic. Even from a distance I could mak e ou t th e blue-gre y shape of the man , th e dar k massed area s of hair along his upper chest an d groin, th e lon g incisio n where he' d been opened a t the morgue . I didn't wan t the first nud e man I'd see t o be dead. I didn't wan t to empty him ou t alone , piece by piece, hi s entrails, hi s heart. What I wanted wa s for my friend t o arrive, to tak e up the instruments an d begin th e excisions , the litan y o f organs. I would labe l an d bag. Then together we' d examine th e corridor s leadin g to an d from th e fault y heart, mak e precise notes : where th e blood poole d i n his body, what it drained awa y from.

3

4 / Anatomy

And s o no t t o loo k at th e gurney , I studied th e instruments : stee l calipers , thin cannulas , th e razor-brigh t edge s o f scalpels . How sharp? I wondered eve n a s the fa t pa d of my left thum b opene d an d bloo d seepe d out . At the pal e blue doo r labele d Supply in th e bac k o f th e room , I put ou t m y good han d an d turne d th e handle . I heard th e latc h click . I heard th e hing e complain . But I was watching m y thum b separat e and swel l purpl e lik e a seam o n a plum . When I did loo k up , I was inside. The close t lifte d int o lon g shelve s where fetuses , fo r a s far a s I could see , swam i n jars, yellowed , curle d i n o n themselves . The doo r slamme d shu t behin d me . I stood ther e i n th e crypt-lik e dar k an d felt—what ? Felt the silence entering my ear? Felt a corridor openin g in me? A corrido r lik e knowing, or th e edg e o f knowing? Inside me , th e see d o f th e tre e o f knowledg e took roo t an d bega n a furiou s blooming . I heard hi m com e in . Hear d hi m cal l m y name . Heard hi m mutte r t o himself ; hear d hi m leav e again . I heard a small nois e tha t sounde d lik e mice . The sleev e o f my labcoa t wa s sticky. I turned i n th e dark . I found th e handl e an d opene d th e door . I stepped out ; I didn't loo k back . I closed th e blind s an d locke d th e oute r door ; I turned of f all the light s but one .

Anatomy / 5

Then I went t o th e gurne y and pulled th e coverin g off th e man . I looked at him, a t all of him. Nothin g to distinguis h him: no moles, tattoos , n o birthmarks o r scars. Only the incision running from sternum t o pubic thicket . I couldn't tell clearl y where th e woun d ende d and the body began. I ran the sea m of my thumb along the lon g opened sea m on th e man. "Here is where w e meet, " I told him, "Here is where w e ar e the same."

CASUALTIES

1. Night Shift, VA. Hospital Regret plays its reedy flute in the dark and fear blows down agai n from th e stars filling the trenches o f men wh o ar e hunched here in the lat e years of the war. And among them i s this boy who has to b e sedate d no w t o sleep, boy who chew s th e swee t roo t o f oblivio n and fires his gun all night into the dea d who, havin g been delivered o f their bodies, can sin no more no r ask him again for mercy.

6

Casualties I 7

2. Amputee Ward I felt th e heat that rose when I touched th e swolle n stum p where th e le g used to be, when I ran the light whit e gauz e touch of my fingers along that seam which seepe d a little i n response. I felt to o th e shudde r that moved through you: the unexpecte d pleasur e your body took against its pain. And then you turned away from me , embarrassed tha t I knew. Beautiful, wounde d boy.

8 / Casualties 3. Emergency Room: D.O.A. What did you think your mother woul d do, turning along the fenc e int o the north pasture, stumbling on you there: face-dow n i n thick clover , shot through with a bullet fro m her gun? And what of your father, just then settling with the evenin g news, her screams rising to him through the scree n door , through the Georgi a dusk? And your brother, just home fro m th e war when the word cam e to him , lon g distance, when that fist of suicide entered hi s ear too, like friendly fire.

Casualties / 9

4. Burn Ward, St. Vincent's All night we wor k ove r the charre d bodies o f those wh o wil l no t rise from thei r beds and go ou t again. We do littl e more tha n hold them fo r a time: until th e spirit lifts , until their pain carries them beyond us and the brackish waters. From the brute ground o f their dying we pul l ourselve s int o th e mornin g air, the sweet burnt smell o f them o n ou r clothes, the phantoms o f their bodies i n our hands needing to b e whole again . W e move between th e livin g and the dying, heavy footed, pocke d wit h grief.

10 / Casualties

5. Intensive Care Unit: Coma Patient Only th e world outside yo u moves. The rest is slumber now , slee p deep as death, where the wheel-drawn curs e o f you r heart has fixed you, spelled an d thorny, t o th e trelli s o f your body. Your heart hangs, a bat in its cave, wings folded, sightless , sending out a little sonar . Sleeper, th e map' s in hand. Already the briars fall away.

SEARCH & RESCUE : YUKO N TERRITORY , 198

1

It was the boy's shoe, ou r third day out, scuffed an d muddied, tippe d o n it s side, strings stil l tie d in a double kno t that led us up the mountain: this way . . . this way,

in the surging rain. I t took u s four day s more, eve n with the dogs. For those fou r days , his mother, dr y eyed , rocked an d held to that shoe and would no t give i t over. For those fou r days , his father slep t an d woke in a Teslin bar and cried and tried to drink himself beyond her face. The boy was found wher e someon e droppe d hi m days before, fee t first, int o a shallow drain . The rain had done th e rest . While w e looke d on , h e wa s lifted out , blue and cold. Th e rain had stopped. Even the wind withheld itself . Sun touched th e trees openly ; birds sang in a nearby thicket . Now ther e ar e whole day s I am not a part of .

11

GRAVEYARD SHIF T

In th e morgu e upstairs , ther e ar e thre e refrigerated drawers , se t apar t fro m th e others : fo r dea d infants. A large bod y wouldn' t fit. Earlier tonight , I lifted tw o babie s i n m y arms , minute s apart , washe d them , wrapped the m i n blu e receivin g blankets , wrote dow n thei r names , and delivere d the m int o thos e col d crypts . Afterwards, I rode th e elevato r dow n agai n t o th e floor wher e livin g babies stil l pull th e ai r har d int o thei r lungs , where th e crou p tents , lik e chill y amnioti c sacs , frost wit h breath . Most night s here , th e beds an d crib s are filled—twenty o f them—and al l night lon g the tw o o f us assigned t o thi s shif t mov e o n round s from infan t t o infan t i n th e dim-li t midnigh t nursery . In cas e there' s a fire or tornado , som e unforesee n catastrophe, w e eac h hav e a n apro n wit h si x pocket s so we ca n carr y tha t man y babies , plu s tw o i n arms , down th e stairwel l an d int o th e ai r outside . Two a.m. an d tw o mor e babies succumb . No w ther e ar e fou r vacan t beds . Micki e says , "Well, no w w e have enoug h pockets , don' t we? " I take th e elevato r u p again . I tuck on e bab y into his crypt . Bu t th e othe r ha s to li e all night amon g grow n men . 12

Graveyard Shift / 1 3

When th e su n comes up, I go home. M y children wan t to mak e cookie s toda y so I tie o n my apron, th e apron with a single pocket , and all morning w e laug h and sing; we rol l th e ginger-brow n dough ove r th e flour-covered table, cut it into the shape s of boys. We put them int o th e oven , and when the y are done, w e tak e them ou t again, paint icing-colored smile s on thei r faces. From the counte r al l day, they wave an d wave.

KYRIE

Each night now, Go d takes the horizo n in His great jaw an d grinds the edges of the see n worl d into darkness and stars. I say God. Perhap s I am wrong about that part though. If so, I blame my father fo r the erro r who sai d to m e o f every thing , It is God's will: su n rising faithfully i n the east , goin g down i n the west . Geese liftin g of f eac h fall int o skie s hung with threads of early snow. Ruined crops. Babie s born dead. God's ways are mysterious, m y father alway s said. And childish, too , I think. God plays an old game: hide-and-seek . He hides. W e seek . Kyrie Eleison. Kyrie. Eleison. Kyrie . . .

**

*

The Go d I pray to now i s not the Go d of the burning bush, Go d of rams and thickets, ol d God of the thou shah not, God Alpha and Omega .

14

Kyrie I 1 5

The Go d I pray to is the Go d of judas goats, Go d o f the boats pushed out to se a at night, Go d of the lost-minde d an d stammering, ol d deaf-mute, dodderin g God .

**

*

Even where lov e has run to ruin, even under the ice-heav y eave s of winter , at the thi n gullies where dee r no longe r come t o drink , and to the musty murmur s between th e walls o f my house, I have stood an d listened, certai n tha t somewhere Go d wa s moving. Others to o hav e leaned o n an elbow uprigh t in the night , a wind rising, an d believed i t was God . Bu t no; only a loose boar d clapping against a far off wall . And in the morning, th e same bright sun , th e sam e hunger in the gut, an d trains arriving, unloading , departing . . . Why lea n like this , eac h night, int o a world emptied ou t as the hollows o f broken bells or fix my eyes on the darkness between th e star s if not to searc h out th e ol d Go d o f my father, to cal l Hi m ou t an d make Hi m answe r fo r wha t is happening here?

**

*

16 / Kyrie

Against the Lor d of this Hour, against the Go d of this Bleak Day, I have made mysel f blind, hav e made mysel f a t last deaf and dumb. Still m y traitorous fingers go o n signin g Hi s name i n the dark . Cut off my hands, wil l you ? Hang them a t the gate. Any gate will do .

THE B U R N E D BO Y

It falls to me , th e task: to lif t hi m by his knobbly elbows—th e unburne d part s of him — to dip him slowl y int o the whirlpoo l an d float the charre d skin off . So twice eac h night I lift hi m and twice eac h night he scream s through the liftin g an d lowering an d the lifting ou t again. I'd like to sa y he sing s his pain. It isn't singing though and not eve n fo r my sake, o r yours, o r his, can I make anything else o f the boy's convulsin g or the stenc h of scorched ski n and underskin that rises from th e water' s surface , catche s in my throat, an d gags me. It goes lik e this between us , th e ritual movemen t in and out o f pain and revulsion, th e terribl e cryings-out , until on e nigh t he open s his mouth, neck muscle s bulging with the effort , but no sound comes , onl y th e stirrin g of water s and the retchin g I can't hold back . In my dreams of the burned boy, I' m settin g rosebushes in among beds of blue forget-me-not s an d baby's breath. When I look over , he's propped amon g the thorned , stubbly bushes: mute, gnarle d elbow s out . He make s no soun d a s I lift him , a s I ease him into a sun-warmed puddl e o f mud and clay, set him in, giv e him water , wai t fo r him t o bloom. 17

FLYING O U T WIT H TH E W O U N D E D

When th e lightning struck , tree s blackened agains t a silver sky and the rive r bruised, th e underside s o f cloud s wounding its surface. Bu t this was not my work. M y work, pressed into the dar k hold o f the chopper , wa s a drunk man—foul an d fuming, restraine d agains t his drunkenness, his abdomen packed with gauz e t o staunc h the bleeding—an d his head-on victims : a woman an d a girl whose hea d had been bandaged to keep th e brain intact. The girl wa s dead. We lifted of f wit h our cargo. Ther e were scan t inches in which to crouch . Jac k had to rid e in front. I was airsick an d praying that the snar l of blades overhead wouldn't sna g in the electri c night . Somewhere between tha t stretch o f sky and Birmingham, th e man caught sight of the woman an d girl. "Goddamn, " he said , "Goddamn. Gooks." And then, t o me, "I n 'Nam w e use d to throw 'e m out, watc h 'e m splatter. " He laughed an d laughed to himself . The woman flinched. Sh e turned her face fro m him, wen t back to stroking the girl's cheek. Th e girl's gaze was fixed. Still the woma n wa s making the shushin g sound. I leaned over the man. "Shu t up," I said clos e t o his ear so he woul d hear me ove r th e noisy blades; "Shut up or I will pus h you out." He quieted the n and I sat back to ride the airsickness in me out . Can I tell yo u I liked thinkin g about pushing him 18

Fifing Out with the Wounded / 1 9

out? Can I say I was imagining how eas y it would be fo r me t o roll the man out into the rumble o f thunder and the whirrin g blades? I was. But then he seized . H e arched agains t his bonds. Hi s eyes rolled back to white . 1 straddle d the man; I called ou t fo r help. Jack grabbed the ambu bag and started the count. I placed my hands, palms down, agains t that spot two fingers' breadth from th e tip of the sternum . I pushed: the man's wound gushed, we t an d warm, agains t my thighs. Th e smel l of blood thickened. I wanted to lift mysel f from him. Stil l I pushed the man's heart to respond. Stil l Jack counted. Stil l the ambu bag wheezed i n and out. We worked like that the whole wa y in, an d when w e lande d someone els e took over . They lifted hi m away ; I stepped ou t t o catc h a mouthful o f wet, clea n air, to driv e the blood-drunk smel l o f him from my lungs. I looked dow n then and saw myself: bloodied, wher e I had straddled the man, a s if I had just given birth.

M Y PATIEN T JUMP S T O H I S DEAT H

I don't know ; ther e wer e signs , ther e ar e always signs . Lik e the crucifi x h e hande d me , how h e rubbe d th e stum p wher e hi s le g used t o b e an d shrugged , "I'v e give n u p o n God. " Maybe th e wa y I imagine i t no w isn' t th e wa y i t was , but a newspaper photograp h i s what I have o f th e event : him, mid-air , th e first su n catchin g th e gol d i n his hair, and th e whit e shee t he' d wrappe d himsel f i n fluttering loos e i n th e win d hi s fallin g made . Someone who' d bee n o n th e groun d tol d m e it had com e t o res t a t th e tip s o f his fingers like a white flag of truce or surrender. Or mayb e i t wa s just a sheet . The tendenc y i s to mak e somethin g meaningfu l of whatever doesn' t mak e sense . 1 do i t myself . Looking a t thi s photograph, hi s bod y the onl y bright thin g agains t th e dar k face o f th e buildin g an d th e predaw n sky , I swear wha t goe s throug h m y head

20

My Patient Jumps to His Death / 2 1

is: Lucifer, falling from heaven. Maybe the eart h is a mirror of heaven. Maybe heaven did tremble, di d go briefl y dark and still just after Lucife r fell . And maybe the seraphi m folded thei r six wing s over their faces and the cherubims ' Hosannahs stalled. Maybe eternity wa s washed, afte r that , i n a ruined light. And maybe somewhere a t the farthest edge , at the sea m calle d Mercy where heave n meet s hell , maybe the Ange l o f Purgator y wa s pushing a cart, carrying a cup of water, whe n sh e entere d hi s room, saw the empty bed, th e ope n window , the whit e curtain s fluttering there lik e th e sleeve s o f saints.

WARMING TH E BLOO D

When the bleeder's brought in just after midnight , he' s cool t o th e touch , like a dead man already, he' s lost so much blood an d we're losin g him. It isn't blood; we'v e go t plent y o f that, typed an d crossmatched befor e h e arrived. But it's refrigerated, al l of it, cold , and the on e workin g warmer is slow. So we fill a pan with hot wate r and float a bag: two minutes , beginning to end . No t fas t enough. He's shivering. Because he's cold, o r because he' s dying, I turn and push an icy bag into the war m darknes s under my clothes — my breasts, m y stomach, m y sides, my underarms warming the blood , three, four , five units at a time until I' m shivering , until I' m i n it with him, caught up in the chil l o f death: the ski n a winter pon d and , in the dee p uhderrooms an d chambers o f the body, the blood slowin g to a last red frieze .

22

THE LAS T LOBOTOMIZE D WOMA N

I can't say it frighten s me , th e fur y I feel a t each night's end, the ster n and sudden aftermath o f triag e passing through the body, th e heart; and it isn't the midnight pain and longing o f the wounde d from whic h I have to haul myself each mornin g when m y shift i s done. What frightens m e i s how, i n order to be wit h you like thi s in the dayligh t world, I have to put tha t other worl d aside, and the devastatio n tha t comes wit h knowing and denying it is there, always , just underneath th e bright-lit worl d in which w e wal k and have our lives. And, mor e tha n that, i t frightens m e that a void yawns and stretches an d opens itsel f in me then , like th e emptines s i n the body just after giving birth, that stillness wher e somethin g move d before , where somethin g had raged and kicked itsel f free o f the slic k darkness. After makin g love t o m y husband this morning, I catch a glimpse o f myself in the beveled mirro r over the dresser , my body done rockin g through the motion s o f loving. An emptiness ha s been i n me no w fo r years. But I look s o ordinary: a woman 23

24 / The Last Lobotomized Woman

tangled in bedsheets, dishevele d an d flushed, a dim smil e settlin g into place again while he showers an d dresses for work. I look a t my fac e and think o f her, th e las t lobotomized woman : how stil l sh e always sat; how wel l behave d and quiet she was, eve n among the insane, half-sunk i n the shadow s of the asylum dayroom. She was the only stil l point i n that room: tables overturned, book s knocked t o th e floor, punches and shouts and, always , th e television: that chaos of black and white, gray voices fro m a high corner o f the room . In a scuffle once , someon e thre w a checkerboard and she was hit: her head slammed ove r to on e side , her glasses shattere d o n the floor. But she sa t perfectly still , a little crooke d i n her chair. One o f the crazie s went ove r t o her; he yelled in her face, I'm sorry! — as if she were hard of hearing. When sh e didn' t respond , h e shrugged ; h e too k he r fac e in his hands and tilted he r head upright again . Tha t half-smil e was still o n her face; her hands were folde d i n her lap.

The Last Lobotomized Woman / 2 5 She went o n lookin g beyond him. He sat down a t her feet. Poor thing, he said, an d then t o us : the poor dear thing. The roo m grew still ; the televisio n flickered and rolled. The man at her feet bega n to cry. Poor thing, h e said , ove r and over, and the dayroo m crazie s sank finally under the weigh t o f such pity; they al l began to cry. For no reason I can make sense o f now, except perhap s just that they wept , something i n her face flickered and she seeme d t o se e them . She lifted on e hand to the ma n at her knee, as if she would touc h his face. She seemed deepl y troubled . / remember seeing . . . , sh e said to him, / remember seeing . . . / remember . . . Then whatever i t was was gone. He r hands fell t o her lap again, the vacan t smile descended . The dull doo r o f her face closed .

HANDS

Surgery las t night on a man slight as a boy, his chest unbuttoned, flapped open lik e a shirt; his heart fell t o string s in my hands. They put it back and sewed him up again. Whose wor k d o I do—half sister to God , hal f sister to Mengele—hunche d eac h night with a cup of water, wit h bandages, wit h morphin e to eas e the dying from crumblin g bodies int o th e afterlife ? My hands on hot brows, o n pulses, o n pain, I rustle bed to bed, i n the half-ligh t half-dark o f makeshift wards , Der Weifie Engel, and I carry home o n my white hand s at dawn the thick ethe r smel l o f death, a phantom tha t rises in bright morning room s each time I pull a brush through my hair. Washing up this morning, I can't bring my hands to my face. Suc h hands: a man's heart falls apart.

26

MERCY

Pediatric Oncology, Mercy Memorial Hospital 1. Oh, a s for mercy , I can tell you— I who, fo r years , have hauled the corpse s from littere d roads and hillsides to cool , indifferen t morgues— I ca n tell you there i s little lef t o f mercy i n this world, God' s or otherwise . What there i s today is a cracked blue cup on th e windowsil l that holds water scarcel y wel l enoug h to keep a boy's fistful o f buttercups standing . And there i s this boy. Otherwise, i t would be just like the cyni c I am to pitch th e yello w weed s an d the busted cup. But then he would wake , yo u see, hi s eyes flitting to tha t sill, an d it would b e empty , a s the bed was empty nex t to him when th e othe r boy died in the night . His eyes would be ful l agai n of that terrible knowin g . . . Still, ho w merciful ca n it be t o le t a sick boy think for eve n one mor e da y that a cup of water is sufficien t to kee p any mortal thin g alive?

27

28 / Mercy 2. We went downstairs a t midnight t o tel l his weary parents: that it was a good passing , tha t he did not suffer , tha t he wen t to slee p and, afte r a minute, just stoppe d breathing. His father fell bac k hard in his chair as a man does who has been given a strong blow t o th e jaw. But his mother: sh e blinked an d looked u p at us as if she didn' t understand; sh e asked in a quiet voice , Do you mean he's dead? Dead. Yes . A difficult wor d t o say straight up—the wa y she sai d i t — when th e dea d one i s a child. Sh e screamed then, a long scream. An d another. An d another. An d none o f us could comfort he r an d nothing we di d could sto p her. Neither coul d w e brin g the boy back. Down th e dar k street, a factory sire n let ou t a long blast. A n ambulance answered below. 3. A boy dying in the nigh t in this city is not a new story . Man y children di e here. And in great pain. Tha t he did not go i n pain might console you . Does it?

HEARTWOOD

In time, a bridge, an d o n i t a woma n who wait s t o ushe r th e dyin g into eternity : Modgudr, Morg-ana, An-gurboda, Mother ofHel.

I have been tha t woman . Over th e rive r Wailing , over it s dark water-son g I have watche d th e livin g worl d go bright, hav e watched i t cr y itsel f into th e ligh t agai n afte r th e dea d hav e crossed . And I have watche d thos e who ar e crossin g ove r int o death , how the y spen d wha t hour s ar e lef t forgiving th e thing s tha t hel d them , forgiving th e thing s tha t le t the m go . And now , fro m th e rough-hewn , splintere d heart o f the oak , I fashion a n oa r with whic h t o ro w mysel f away . And whil e I row, I sing, with m y whol e heart , rowin g an d singin g until onl y th e star s ar e lef t t o liste n in , the solid , grain y hear t o f oa k rising an d falling , risin g an d falling , moving m e hom e agai n through th e swee t blac k waters . 29

W H E N I A M N O T TELLIN G I T

Somewhere i n history a woman is tying on her apron just at the momen t the roug h hemp rope i s knotted fast around her husband's neck . The snap as it takes the man' s full weight , and the brief inelegant step s of his feet i n midair — this is someone else' s story. And the child wit h gallows-dreams , the woman' s child , wh o woul d be m y great-grandfathe r waking the household nightl y crying , Papa, oh my Papa— this too i s someone else' s story. But this silence whic h is the lon g silence o f my lif e out of which the stor y rise s when it rises and to whic h the stor y return s when I am not tellin g it , this is my story as is the ol d knoc k an d shove o f my heart around it and my love o f grudges. To begin wit h a n apron and end with a hanging, cryin g between: this is a story I know well enoug h t o tell . 33

THE BURNIN G

If youcan't say something nice, don't say anything at all. 1. From one en d o f my childhoo d to the other , th e silenc e o f obedienc e stretches, lift s an d curls like wisps o f smoke aroun d me . Where there's smoke, there's fire,they say. And the furnac e i n me i s rage. Now ever y chai r I sit in, ever y pew, each table or book o r photograph I put my hands on smoulders. Ever y thing I love goes u p in flames. I am the torch put to it . Some things are better left unsaid. I understand: a mantle o f normalcy ove r things. Good girl. Goo d wife . Goo d mother .

2. Listen. Th e medus a is an obvious ruse: the head of snakes, th e stone-gra y eyes , th e scal y body o f a beast. Yo u know t o bring alon g a shield, some mirro r by which t o sav e yourself .

34

The Burning / 3 5

You think you Ye safe? Just put your hands on me. Tha t warmth you fee l will chang e to burning. Incendiary . That' s my heart. And all the heat moves out fro m there .

3. As a girl, I got s o good a t smoulderin g not even my petticoats wer e singed . My hair lay down i n perfect wave s around me. My shoes were patent , blac k reflections o f the room s I entered; m y face genteel . Only m y voice wa s charred, riddled wit h smoke , bu t who kne w that? I rarely spoke. Yes ma*am. Yes sir. That hardly qualifies a s speech.

4. For me, i t is always eight minute s befor e or eight minutes after, th e warmt h o r the chill , never the even t itself . Or maybe th e eight h minute befor e is the sun gone dark and the nex t seve n minute s already afterlife.

36 / The Burning

I was four. A girl i n my mother's house . The man was not my father.

5. I am burning still; with shame, with more tha n shame. Over twenty-on e millio n minutes beyond it , an d though I can't see hi s face, I can feel tha t arm, th e on e he late r lost, th e righ t ar m — arm that he held m e wit h s o his left han d could grop e below . And my mother, woma n in the mirror, eight minutes after , a s the rui n set in, what did she see; what did she look awa y from?

MY FATHER' S HOUS E

There ar e no roads back to tha t house: 55 Odess a Drive , ou r backyard separated fro m th e wil d field by a hedge, where eac h morning, I lifted int o the low blu e sky on a plank swing and I sang the nonsense rhyme s and syllables only a six-year-old ca n get awa y with: mumbo-jumbo, eat jour gumbo, Peter-beater, booger-eater . . . How littl e els e I can remember now : the hot kitche n wher e m y grandmother cooke d an d sewed, cornbread crumble d int o buttermilk a t noon, orange marigold s liftin g alon g the gravel drive . I remember i t was the first house death visited: th e pink-white frot h on the dog's black mout h as he staggered throug h the hedge an d across the yard where m y brother an d I were digging for worms. I remember m y grandmother running from th e porch, he r dress hiked up over her bony knees , th e wa y she place d hersel f between u s and the dog , the raggedy broo m sh e shoo k a t him. Stay back, sh e said t o us, he's mad—he s got the rabies. 37

38 / My Father's House

I can't remember no w whic h neighbor calle d the dog catcher who cam e an d netted th e do g and put him down with a long needle o n ou r front lawn . But I do remember how , fo r th e res t o f that afternoon , I swung in the dangerous yard and tried the new words , mad and rabies, o n my tongue.

WITH BAPTIST S

Singing, always singing, no matter what—and dunking . Singing and dunking. Though drinking's not allowed. No r dancing. Too close to fornication; too Methodist. Bu t singing and dunking Baptists are well-acquainted with, even the youngest, though dunking can seem a lot like drowning at eight years old if you step off int o thos e col d waters , startin g to sink , and the preacher slap s a white clot h ove r you r nose and mouth and spills you over backwards and you lose you r footin g and your good manner s as unexpectedly a s you lost you r heart to Jesus that April mornin g whe n th e congregatio n wa s singing the Easter sun home. Going under, al l sinner again and desperate fo r soli d ground, I clawed the preacher's arm s and face, until he had to stan d me u p again, fast ; he shook m e hard then, twice , and my teeth clacked against each other from more than the chilly waters and the fear of drowning, whil e the choir in front of us, oblivious, san g again the old refrain : Almost persuaded, now to believe . . .

39

FIRST REBELLION , 195

9

By mid-December, w e al l were wear y o f th e chroni c colds an d ringwor m we' d gotte n fro m crouchin g in th e fa r we t winte r ditche s o f th e schoolyar d once, sometime s twice , a week when th e civi l defens e siren s sounded . But there wa s Castr o t o consider , i n a country calle d Cub a which, w e al l knew, was fa r awa y fro m Florid a bu t no t fa r enough. So between rehearsin g th e Adeste Fideles and Stille Nacht for parents ' nigh t a t Christmas , th e siren s blare d and w e foun d ourselves , again , shin-dee p in th e mudd y water s o f the irrigatio n ditc h that ra n betwee n th e schoolyar d an d th e can e fields. The principa l walke d u p an d dow n wit h hi s megaphon e and pointe d a t th e one s wh o trie d t o sta y half-standing , Get down. Get down, I say. If the missiles fall.. .

Lucy Armstrong , nex t t o me , bega n t o cry—sh e alway s crie d at th e par t abou t th e missile s fallin g o n us . Then Charlen e Baxte r was crying . An d I started cryin g too . Not becaus e o f the missiles , but becaus e I' d crouche d so low m y new underpant s wer e we t an d becaus e somethin g moved b y me underwate r an d I was afrai d it was the baby cottonmouth s which, a s everyone knew , swa m i n ditc h water an d ha d ba d

40

First Rebellion, 1959 / 4 1 tempers an d could kil l yo u wit h on e dro p of their poison. Soon th e whol e clas s was crying. Miss Holtz, wh o wa s our teacher, climbe d ou t o f the ditc h and said something t o th e principa l w e couldn' t hear. Her legs had brown ditch-muck o n the m an d the back seams of her stockings were crooked . She called us into two-by-two line s and marched u s back into the classroom , eve n thoug h the all-clear hadn't sounded. We took t o ou r seats in our soggy clothes . We folded ou r hands and waited. Miss Holtz, wh o wa s the onl y Jew w e kne w personall y in Jacksonville which , i n those days , wa s mostly full o f Baptist s and heathens, smoothed he r wet woo l skir t an d emptie d the ditc h wate r from he r high black heels. Sh e said to us, If Mr. Castro sends his missiles to America, ladies and gentlemen, we will not be cowering in ditches. We will be here, sitting, upright in our seats. And she too k u p the yello w chalk .

THE BOO K

On a give-away tabl e a t the librar y when I was twelve: gold-embossed letter s o n a black clot h cover. I took i t to th e librarian who dre w a line o f little xxxs through the librar y name an d stampe d "This book belongs t o "

in the fron t cover .

She watched a s I penciled m y name in the space. She initialed it and handed i t back to me . So it came to be m y book.

**

*

When I asked my father later if it wa s true, what the book said , h e told me , Girl, you can't believe everything you read in books, and he wen t back t o wor k o n his model planes . So I asked my teacher abou t it too. She said, Well, yes, it's true, for the most part. It was terrible but, after all, they killed Christ, the Jews.

**

*

So I hid the book. I put it in a drawer, unde r m y socks, and late at night while th e household slept , I crept out of bed and sat at the moonli t windo w an d turned the pages. I let mysel f look a t their faces, their bony arm s and legs, th e barns of hair, the little scoop s of gold waitin g on scales. 42

The Book / 4 3

One pag e I returned t o ever y night : a girl wh o could*v e been my age walking, hea d down, by a woman's side , carryin g a book unde r her arm. Just ahead of them, t o th e sid e o f the gate they wil l pas s through: a pile, already burning.

STUMBLING INT O A PECA N GROV E A T M I D N I G H T JUST AFTE R TH E LYNCHIN G

We'd come—th e si x of u s — to kindl e a fire and tell ou r ghost storie s lat e a t night, seeking out some dar k plac e farthes t remove d from wha t w e knew t o be the lit, sane world . Oh hell, complained Dickie , walkin g in, there's no moon; it won't be scary enough.

Still, the place fel t lik e ever y dar k closet I ever hi d in: the same soure d dirt smel l o f old shoes, a damp sponge pressin g th e spine fro m behin d where milde w ha s rotted wallboar d soft . There wer e light s and voices. Fa r off. Movin g away. God, what's that smell? somebody aske d

just abou t di e time someon e els e brushed agains t the body, hangin g fro m a low limb, and se t it swinging, i n the dark, lik e a large pinat a over us . Jake pulle d ou t his cigarette lighte r an d sent up a little flash of light. W e saw him then: the hanged man. He'd bee n lynche d an d set afire. Skin hung fro m hi s arms i n raw singed flags. One sho e had fallen off , th e flesh of his left foo t stil l inside . And a s for his face, well , m y nightmares ar e made o f that. When Dicki e stoppe d throwin g u p and when ou r legs could hol d u s again, w e went t o town fo r help.

44

Stumbling into a Pecan Grove at Midnight Just after the lynching / 4 5

They cu t him down an d laid him ou t like that in the Zio n Methodis t Church . N o on e eve r claime d the body, fa r as I know. W e learned earl y not to spea k of it, not eve n among ourselves. Dicki e wen t north to Canad a and Jake went t o Vie t Nam . An d as for me, I keep tryin g to imagin e a pecan tree—an y tre e really — free o f that hanged man's ghost.

BLOODLINE

For my grandfather Dim ligh t and warmth and the we t feathered underside s o f the hens; also how, when I drew my gathering hand back again, it was dappled wit h th e blood an d membrane that slicked the morning' s eggs. I remember thi s now and the grizzled ol d ma n who neve r lifte d a hand to m e though there wa s reason to flinch if he lashe d ou t to crus h a fly or seve r a blacksnake's head. Once, whil e m y brother and I looked on , he grabbed his rifle fro m th e truc k an d shot a puppy he'd backed over—th e wron g pup: and when h e foun d the other , wounde d on e which ha d dragged itself , whimpering an d limp, int o a nearby scrub , he sho t it too, the spen t cartridges clattering , on e the n another, in the dirt-packed yard . He was hard in a practical way : calves were fattene d then butchered; lambs too, eve n the goat. And if he let th e pi g dangle by its hind feet, squealing , while he withheld th e knife al l morning fro m it s throat, or if he laughed when th e slaughtere d chicken , headless , chased us around the yard, well , som e o f the meannes s that ticked in him has ticked i n me too .

46

Bloodline I 4 7

These late year s in the crowde d tent s of the wounde d and dying—so muc h blood, s o many dead—and haven' t I, on bitter mornings , fel t m y stiff fingers thawing in the left-over warmt h o f some corpse' s belly? Haven't I plunged m y hands into th e viscer a o f men's bodies and pulled them , sticky , bac k t o me , an d felt th e curiou s pleasure rise i n me agai n that rose thos e earl y morning s when I was a child gathering eggs?

IN TH E TU B TONIGHT , M Y S O N

In the tu b tonight , m y so n and his favorite boats . Go down, h e say s like God . Like God , h e plant s on e finger o n eac h bow . The boat s oblige . But whe n h e lift s hi s hands, the foolis h thing s bo b u p again , white-sailed an d arrogant . This angers him, th e boy , and, i n a rage I have no t see n i n hi m before , he tear s th e sai l fro m eac h blu e boa t and rend s them , mast s an d deck s an d hulls . But still , th e piece s float. He rise s then , the wate r o n hi s smal l boy' s bod y shimmering; h e pull s th e plug . Go down, he say s once more . They do , fo r good : blu e shard s scattered, beache d aroun d hi s fee t on th e sandy , whit e botto m o f th e tub . He stands , a stranger t o m e almost , amid th e devastatio n h e ha s wrought , then seems , a moment, lost ; h e shiver s and step s fro m th e tub . 48

In the Tub Tonight, My Son I 4 9

Late into th e night , I hear him in the dar k house crying for his beautiful boats .

AT PASSOVE R

The nigh t befor e th e koshe r butche r i s due, half in, hal f ou t o f dreams, I wait fo r m y childre n t o sleep , for m y husband' s snore s t o knoc k agains t th e dar k walls of the clapboar d house . And whil e I wait, I finger the sky-blu e lambswoo l shawl I pulled las t winter . I wrap mysel f i n it , and whe n th e househol d sleeps , I slip ou t t o th e fa r pasture wher e th e ewe s an d thei r lamb s ar e penned . Perhaps only because o f that shaw l they le t m e pass , th e wild-eye d mother s who hav e rushe d a t us for day s as if they kne w the seaso n o f slaughter wa s on the m again . Only a perfect mal e wil l be taken , so I have onl y on e t o mar . In m y lef t hand , a tendril o f ivy ; in m y righ t hand , a kitchen knife . He finds me righ t away , th e blac k beads o f his eye s button-bright ; he wobble s ove r t o nuzzle m y hand fo r th e ritua l treat h e i s used to ; h e sink s his muzzle dee p int o th e pal e woo l comfort o f the shawl . Now, I tell myself , cut now; one flaw and he will be spared . . . 50

At Passover / 5 1

But in the end , I cannot do it, not eve n t o sav e his life; we ar e locked togethe r i n the blessin g and the curs e o f his perfection . So I lift hi m into my soft-shawled arms . I murmur an d hold to him while, over our heads, th e star s wink ou t on e b y one. I ask him t o forgive me , a s if that were possible . When the y separate him out nex t morning , the pasture erupt s with bleating; but he goes, willing and dumb, nuzzling the butcher's hand while a blessing is sung over him.

SUICIDE NOTE S

When I return fro m th e shor e dogwoods ar e snowin g ou t o n th e law n and you r messag e i s on m y machine .

**

*

You have alway s been i n suc h a hurr y to dro p yoursel f int o hel l and thi s time I can't pul l yo u back .

**

*

I'm afrai d t o loo k a t yo u ther e deep i n you r coma , afrai d i n tha t on e bar e loo k the ragge d riggin g o f m y ow n lif e wil l fai l t o hold .

**

*

Never agai n wil l I be s o far awa y while yo u ar e a t hom e dressing yoursel f fo r th e funeral .

**

*

Never agai n wil l yo u di e lik e this : the diastoli c nigh t droppin g ou t fro m unde r you , the clock' s fac e turning , blue forget-me-not s crowdin g you r throat .

52

AFTERLIFE

For my Jather I. I stumbled o n him, aisle five, between th e pasta and the breads, where h e wa s wandering u p and down the lon g deserted aisl e alone. H e wa s two, mayb e three, year s old, in jeans and a bright red jacket. So I stalled, feigned interes t i n the rye and sourdough, and waited fo r some franti c mothe r t o return . He sa t down — lay down really—o n a vacant shelf and I thought, She'll never see him there. "Where's your mother?" I asked and he began t o cry, as if he'd just remembered her . Shopper s passed ove r us like so much produce the y weren' t intereste d in . By the tim e Social Service s arrived, h e was sleeping, on e fist curled against his chin. A s they lef t th e aisle with him he opened hi s eyes and cried ou t fo r me . So I carried th e boy as far as the curb , his hands tangled i n my hair; when I handed him over, h e cried . I smiled. I waved goodbye. I said they'd find his mother fo r him.

53

54 / Afterlife

As if he understood . It wa s th e las t I saw o f hi m and, lik e som e photograph , hi s face i s burne d behind m y brain: the lost boy.

2. Father, ho w ca n I believe that th e sou l lift s of f a t death, turnin g foreve r from th e body ? Ho w ca n I believe tha t tonigh t when eve n th e rain , th e prodiga l rain , return s to th e dust-craze d window s an d somethin g i n i t brings th e boy' s fac e bac k t o m e again ? And to o ther e i s the wind , rain's ol d companion , strainin g a t th e gate' s hasp , its raspy coming s an d goings . Al l thos e settings-off an d i t to o returns , finally, fingering th e thing s i t ha s love d even i f they hav e fallen , all , in th e meantime , t o rust . Father, i f there i s a heaven to ru n t o afte r death , le t i t b e fre e o f th e boy' s face , looking back a t me . I f not, the n le t m e b e here, i n m y one dar k life , a s I am tonight : letting g o the angels , th e gri m God , al l the brigh t glorie s of whatever els e move s ove r th e fac e o f th e deep , the sou l here-and-no w i n th e blood-thic k body , a damp thing , a dark wind , som e memor y o f a lost boy' s face :

AfterLife I 5 5

that noisy shado w clingin g a t the heels, th e elbows , to th e body's firm, familia r earth . So, Father , tel l me : what is the dar k to you ?

To TH E W O M A N I N TH E N E X T BE D W H O S E DAUGHTE R WA S BORN W I T H D O W N ' S SYNDROM E THE DA Y M Y DAUGHTE R WA S BOR N D E A D

I can't remembe r you r nam e anymore , but al l these year s an d I am trying stil l to forge t you r fac e whe n the y first hande d he r to you bundled int o a pale pin k blanket , th e devastation that shattere d you r sea-blu e eye s when yo u saw what th e doctor ha d spoken wa s true. Years later, an d it comes bac k t o me clear: you r wrecke d fac e over th e nursing chil d an d how my bound breast s le t go with eac h suc k an d slurp tha t reache d m e there through th e white curtai n th e nurse ha d drawn betwee n us. When th e child ha d been lifte d fro m yo u again an d the gauze barrier pushe d back , I envied yo u your sweet , retarde d girl . We didn' t spea k then ; instea d w e let the television drone o n for hours, le t it flicker and fall, a t last, to a midnight silence , le t it go dark an d leave th e two of us awkward i n the hush o f that room . Your voice, pitche d thi n an d high, brok e th e silence then : Do you think it's right for me to still name her Hope?

56

To the Woman in the Next Bed I 5 7

Because you shoved your fist against your mouth an d wept, and bitterly, I bit back the cruel thing I would have said to you: that this is the face Hop e wear s in this world, the idiot's face, swee t an d keen wit h hunger, swaddled an d handed over , a living thing, to onl y the fortunate ones .

WAITING ROO M 1. My Husband Sends Flowers

Not lik e thi s will I be pacified . Was it, a s his car d implied , som e act of a merciful God that neve r allowe d the chil d on e mouthfu l o f ai r before bein g lifte d away , blue an d unnamed ? Who mad e thi s baby wrong ? Who mad e th e other s right ? I had though t Deat h woul d ente r m y hous e with it s meat-red breath , with it s col d blu e ey e fixed o n me . But Deat h hel d it s blade ove r th e child . I walk fro m roo m t o roo m a t nigh t blood-heavy stil l fro m pregnancy , grief braide d int o m y hair , his flowers blooming wildl y o n th e sill .

58

Waiting Room / 5 9

2. The Child's Death The da y she broke fro m m e i n birth, still fo r a moment sweetl y strun g to me , she wore th e darknes s in me ou t and I believed i n mercy. Old Indian-give r God , I am learning sorro w no w b y rote. She left muc h as she first arrived — breathless, still—an d I , struc k so , coul d scarcel y bear to pick her up as now I cannot wholl y la y her down. She went fro m m e t o Death , that garment wit h no sea m or rift , and my arms could no t lift he r out o f it or take her back or move he r down th e hall t o bed, he r smal l head bobbing on m y shoulder lik e a boat at sea.

60 / Waiting Room 3. I Am Asked to Play Mary in the Living Christmas Pageant

The holida y grow s terrible : the dea d child' s fac e swimmin g bac k through tinse l an d tre e lights . I would refus e i t i f I could: and th e midnigh t bells , sno w falling , the brigh t bloo d berrie s o f th e holly . Even th e crech e wit h it s tin y infant . But th e nigh t woul d brea k ove r m e al l th e same . So I take m y place amon g th e beast s and th e burde n o f gifts, waitin g agai n for th e chil d t o arrive , for th e chil d t o b e lifte d away .

LAST LULLAB Y FO R TH E DEA D CHIL D

The hoar-frost enter s me a s it enters th e worl d outside , crown-first, an d I am going winter y a s well, even the on e brie f memory I have of you, sligh t and blanketed i n my arms, gone whit e o r silver where you r face use d to be. Oblivion ha s pulled th e shades. Goodnight, m y daughter; of f to sleep. It isn't dreamin g that I do; a dream would have to star t somewhere—some face , some graceles s features , smal l but like my own, swimmin g up from memory . Nothin g toda y but the cold . My own reflectio n isn' t me .

61

LESSONS For Matthew

I sit outsid e i n th e shad e wit h m y son , a brown-eyed bo y wh o clutche s a baseball mit t and perche s a t th e edg e o f th e fron t porc h steps . His hair i s combed wetly , slicke d ou t o f his face ; from tim e t o time , h e spit s into hi s hand s and smoothe s hi s cowlick bac k again , the wa y his father like s it . For a time I try t o comfor t hi m with th e ol d lies : Maybe the traffic got bad. Maybe we got the wrong time. The wrong day. I'm sure

he'll be here soon. But th e bo y i s learning . . . As the su n drops , th e crisscrosse d wires o f telephone an d utilit y stand ou t agains t th e blazin g sk y and I think o f my brothe r wh o use d t o si t next t o m e o n a porch lik e this, silen t an d stunne d after m y fathe r ha d taugh t hi m . . . because I love you, the welt s o n m y brother' s leg s rising . The su n i s out now ; lightnin g bug s ar e liftin g o n th e lawn . The boy sag s against me , makin g tw o fists and rubbin g the m agains t hi s eyes while I hum and pretend , fo r hi s sake, no t t o notice .

62

Lessons / 6 3

Finally he sit s up again, quiet an d rigid, turned awa y from me , hi s back straight and taut as a bowstring, hi s silenc e the arro w aime d a t my heart.

SINCE YO U ASKE D

1. Marriages? Oh , yes , I see. We'r e goin g t o ge t into tha t one , ar e we ? Okay . I'l l sa y it straigh t up : Jive. I've ha d five marriages. Fou r husbands . Figur e i t ou t for yourself . It' s wa y beyond me . You think yo u kno w a man. An d the n you liv e wit h hi m a year o r two . O r seven . Have a child wit h him , o r two , o r three , o r four . You look u p fro m you r ironin g on e day , see him leanin g i n a n ope n doorway . He's frame d i n light , hi s mouth working ; he's tryin g t o tel l yo u something , and wha t yo u kno w jus t the n is what yo u don' t know . Soon he's leaving—o r yo u ar e — and you'r e alon e agai n inside you r grief. O r anger . O r relief . Swearin g you won' t d o tha t again . Live in sin next time, yo u think .

Then som e starli t evening , sunbrigh t morning , you blin k an d ther e yo u ar e again : / do. I will. 'Til death . . .

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Since You Asked / 6 5

2. But not th e sock s an d underwear; no t thi s time. Let them li e forever b y the bedside wher e they'v e fallen ; let them rot , th e stenc h fill up the house. Let the hamper bulge al l weekend , with his dingy shirts , m y stockings. Let his mother whisper it' s a shame how slovenl y th e household looks . Let dishes congregate a t midnight i n the sink , a mass of peas and carrots drowning in cold suds. Let the kitchen di m with fires, singed chickens , falle n cakes. Let the sparrows gather at the window s begging crumbs and let the neighbor s wonde r wh y the summe r grass is high enough to los e smal l children in. Let the fields fall fallow ; le t the garden bruise wit h thistle. And let th e years roll, rightly , wrongly , int o on e anothe r while th e gossips rage around us Isn't she awfully older than he? Le t them wonder . And let u s fall eac h night into our marriage bed, answering again and again that tangled ol d riddle o f love an d lust.

HUNGER

For Ian On the night o f our first anniversary , while yo u sleep a t home five hundred mile s north , the ol d nightmare rouse s me and , douse d wit h sweat , I search the grassy field beyond thi s windo w gone silver-gra y b y the ful l moon' s light . No soldier s move tonigh t fro m th e wood' s edg e as they moved once : a crude rumbl e o f swearin g and boots ove r the broke n bricks and rubble of an abandoned mil l wher e I crouched, an d my children, with othe r wome n an d children, homeless , on the secon d floor, barricaded i n for the night . They shouted u p at us, thos e drun k soldiers , — some o f them youn g as I was then — Want to earn some money, darlings? Come down. Or let us in. Well pay for love. I rocked th e teethin g baby and covered m y daughter's ears and I burned— Lord, how I burned — to hear the flagrant propositions the y offere d loudl y u p to us when the whiskey'd properl y fired them. Not love , bu t hunger. Ho w i t drives us all, and wrongly sometimes . I tell you , hunge r is what drove m e to th e first man I married, wha t drove me, whe n he' d gone, to the streets , t o actua l hunger dee p i n the gut,

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Hunger / 6 7

to th e hand-me-down coats , t o th e sandwiche s and grape Koolai d the good nun s brought up to us twice eac h day; it's what drove me, finally , t o that mill, to th e dank night corners o f the homeless an d the winte r sickness which took th e weakes t childre n off , and some o f us too, t o th e burial carts and the charit y graves. And hunger is what will carr y me bac k again tomorro w to you, wha t carries me back , always , to the dark embrace o f this world an d our difficult children , three o f them soldier s now themselves . Maybe it's what brought thos e boys long ago, in their camouflag e an d boots, t o tha t mill where w e huddled: som e fierce, inexplicable hunge r that drove the m to stan d below, shiverin g i n the brittle dark , callin g ou t what they would d o for us, fo r ou r daughters, if only we woul d ope n up to them . And, i f I thought yo u could stan d hearing it, I would tel l yo u now ho w I considered it . Going down, I mean. T o him. To that one, strang e man in the dar k who calle d ou t my name and promised onl y what he would actuall y give an d nothing more. —June 30, 1996

KEEPING WATC H 1. The X-Rays Come Back

So, Death , thi s is the wor k you've bee n abou t fo r months , you an d you r Cance r chisel : this bone sho t throug h wit h light , this hive where th e bee s o f pain toi l al l day.

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Keeping Watch / 6 9 2. The Body Politic Before th e surgeon' s wor k begins, before th e scalpe l lift s par t of me away, before th e gurney roll s me int o recover y and the anaesthesia mist s lift , I wait i n this body riddle d wit h th e new s of distant terrors o f the day: the coups, th e camps , th e refugees , the famishe d children , th e soldier s poised . . . O smal l echo o f this world, my body, tel l me : what darkness are we falling throug h and into wha t bloody hand?

70 / Keeping Watch

3. Filling Out the Donor Card If I rise to go ou t from th e blood-cave o f my body, what would be left t o someon e els e and what should go ou t wit h me? To whom coul d I leave thes e ears , compromised an d heavy, burdened wit h secrets , or these arm s and legs, these breasts, thi s womb tha t grew accustomed t o ruin? To whom woul d I leave thi s heart which has learned t o bear the small destructions o f love? And to whom, thes e eyes , these two ol d witness stones — who coul d bear to se e again the glory i n us go down ?

Keeping Watch / 1\ 4. Tumor I dream it is a small chil d growing i n me. He has fallen ou t o f the moon , a tiny angel , a pink flesh doll. He holds out his hands to m e an d cries Mama Mama and when I can bear it no longer, I give him a name an d go under the knife .

72 / Keeping Watch 5. Keeping Watch What I thought I saw that night was a man rowing his longboat acros s a moonlit river. He put in among the rushe s at the water' s edg e an d stood ther e as if waiting for someone . After a while, h e picked u p his oar and set off agai n in the dark . He rowed directl y int o th e path of the moon . He was the onl y on e i n the boat. I watched until he disappeare d into the dar k at the opposit e shore . He was so much close r tha n I thought.

Keeping Watch / 7 3

6. Coming Home The sk y has held. Small stone s stil l litte r th e yard. The door open s and every thin g is as when I left: grey mice scurryin g in the pantry, a cracked blue cu p on the sill , white sheet s turned bac k for sleep. I enter int o life again ; I take it up with al l its absences. And on everything I touch now : the old stain of death, or perhaps only some memor y o f it which I unpack again and again and settle int o like a home.

74 / Keeping Watch 7. Passing the Five-Year Mark

We have made ou r wa y through th e Christma s storm , over th e reluctan t ic e o f the river , bearing the gift s w e have learned t o bear : our survivors ' bodie s an d th e name s o f those w e lost . The mantl e i s deep i n holly , a small tree shine s in it s lights, and fa r of f i n th e nigh t ther e ar e caroler s singing a song w e listene d t o i n tha t othe r season , season o f dying, whe n w e leane d fro m a hospital windo w and wep t whe n w e hear d i t an d though t w e woul d di e without knowin g th e worl d agai n whole .

GOD'S HEA D

Nights now, whe n Go d puts Hi s head next t o m y head on th e pillow, I know I'l l wak e next mornin g with singe d hair and my bald scalp glowing; the cucko o wil l have nested i n my brain and oblivion wil l have come an d gone again, leavin g its dim drum i n my ear. I' m waitin g for Hi m anyway , thoug h the win d rebuke s me sternl y for m y sleeplessness . Already, th e whol e dar k vault of my body i s shining like stee l and , somewher e acros s the night , Go d is the Whetstone , singin g fo r it s blade.

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BELLS

Beyond thi s sun-drenched morning , beyond the mock-blu e skie s and the bleating goats, beyond th e clenche d fists of magnolia blooms, beyond th e bean plants, stake d and upright, and the straw-hearte d scarecrow , beyond th e sna p of sheet s whitening o n the wire an d the cat' s arched back, beyond thi s slight and ordinary lif e the relentles s bell s ring and ring.

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O N TH E SUBJEC T O F TH E POO R I N AMERIC A

For Robin H. Ah, poverty . It' s difficult, yo u see , for me t o spea k about it—even t o yo u who would understand , o r would tr y to—the sham e of having been tha t poor. Yes , shame; that old dog a t the heels. And what, d o you imagine, woul d yo u feel : four children—on e a baby still — a husband gone, house taken , an d the las t bottle o f milk gone sour . You' d feel responsible . And failed. An d then there'd be tha t baby, hi s eyes on you, fever-bright . Alway s that baby who doesn' t cry , wh o doesn' t blam e you , ever . Even clothed an d fed a s I am now, conten t in middle-America, I can tell you : poverty i s the only country I'v e eve r really known , its bleak and populated terrain . I know it s faces, it s filthy fingers in my pockets. Its tattered flag flies over my dreams. But let me tel l you , comfor t i s an old devi l too , minus horns an d pitchfork, true , but a devil nevertheless . I n the ear day and night, hi s smooth, convincin g voice : Try not to think of them, those others. You got out; 80

On the Subject of the Poor in America I 8 1 they could too if they wanted to. Just have your life. Be grateful forwarm bread, cool waters, the safe walls of a house, the view. This is where you belong . . . But the poo r ar e always refugees, an d so are we, m y friend , so are we. Refugee s wit h no boats, n o roads away from wha t we know . N o port s of liberty t o sai l to. Not fo r us. An d not for thos e who know th e turning wor m o f hunger in the gut. Say we d o get somethin g finally—comfort or love, fou r soli d walls around us, heat , a sapling in the yard , a baby who thrives — it's never going to be enoug h and it's always going to be to o much . As long as we kno w they're there , thos e others—an d w e do , God knows we do—there' s guil t fo r us in every mouthful . The biscuit goes down , difficult ; th e crumb s impossible t o leave.

AFTER TH E SIEG E

1. I am thinkin g tonigh t o f those children , how easil y the y slippe d fro m us . The wing s o f sorrow ope n i n me , a wild blu e bir d unde r m y heart . Tonight I will be inconsolable . Tomorrow I will refus e to hel p yo u buil d agai n the lie o f sanctuary.

2. Because I did no t d o it , because I did no t actuall y go , I ride eac h nigh t no w i n m y dream s over thos e lon g silve r rails , a driven engine , chuggin g an d huffing . But all th e train s arriv e i n Wac o on th e 52n d day : buildings burning, childre n dead , and a great win d ragin g of f int o th e gul f between what is and what was possible.

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After the Siege I 8 3

3, Three ston e angel s guard them now , thes e childre n who fel l ou t o f their lives and into these graves. And where wer e the y then, thes e angel s with faces that so resemble ou r own?

THE O N E S W H O COM E

1. In Europe th e books have opened agai n to the pages of terror and hunger as well a s to all the intricat e name s of the lash and the whip. The day and its disasters ar e singing furiously i n the face s o f children. You have told me you r nightmares: but the whole plai n of Meggid o does not terrify m e as much as those childre n d o hung in their hunger. Can you tell m e ho w t o go back to th e daily ceremony o f my comfort an d the abundan t breaking of bread? Whether o r not w e kno w ho w i t happens, out o f each night's oblivion , the next mornin g swim s in. And the next . Likewise thes e children . The last angels on eart h have forsaken them : in the steepl e o f time the y are tolling lik e a bell.

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The Ones Who Come / 8 5 2. This angel has no wings. This angel rise s again from th e dus t o f the fields, from th e last bead of swea t and the oven' s ash, from th e stenc h o f cattl e cars. This angel take s the train from Crako w ever y morning . This angel travel s with a sickle hear t and a yellow sta r to stee r by. This angel look s at you and that owl, Fear , flies through, the heart crying , who? who? This angel speak s and voice s rustle agai n in the meado w o f birches: here we are; here.

86 / The Ones Who Come 3. They were childre n here so long. An d no w their feet, thei r eyes , thei r little bones , thei r tongue s have fallen int o the dee p eart h sleep. Bu t tonight their voices rise agai n through the winter thickets , over the tin y white crosse s and the bleak fields. Look, I tell them , / am trying to live my own life while I can. Go back to sleep. But there's no impressing them . They go o n tuggin g at their coatsleeves , sucking on thei r fingers, go o n crying , g o o n holding out their invisible hearts, tryin g to make themselves visibl e an d loved again. My heart barely endure s it; but the moon , oh the moon, sh e cracks easily. Sh e is so fa r gone tonight only th e barest light remains to ste p out by, and just as I think I'v e foun d a way away from them , fro m th e cries, broken cups , fraye d hems , I find instead that they have somehow gathere d themselves , one by one, int o my transient arms.

The Ones Who Come / 8 7 4. With weeping, they shall all come home again. —Jeremiah 31 Under th e tongue, God' s name rests like a stone. Loos e i t the wil d lantern s of time swing back, the n forward . I find myself in the ruin s of a house lon g ago blown down . In my eyes, th e dea d rise again and pass like ligh t over broken chimney brick . They li e down o n wor n floorboards. They cr y all night with th e pigeons.

88 / The Ones Who Come 5. Children of holocausts, yo u come t o m e over the dark currents of history. I don't know wha t to do. My own childre n ris e up to m e wearing torn gowns, coat s devoid o f buttons. Is the shape of the spac e IV e eased int o yours? I too grow intimat e wit h the earth , all brambles and bright berries, clamberin g fo r sun. No, no t lik e that; not edibl e o r sweet . More like wild rose s and thorns, a barbed kiss left o n the flesh of those wh o have dared to touc h me . Fist over fist, the moo n still hauls itself acros s the sky while Time' s hand, lik e a godly woman , takes me u p and scours me clean . I am thin as memory now . But where yo u walk throug h the trumpet s o f the body soun d and even the silen t place s in me shudder .

The Ones Who Come / 8 9

6. No mor e lyin g awake until the animal s have sated themselves an d the star s have gone out . I want to slee p tonight . I want to slee p though fields are burning and the smel l o f ash is everywhere. The win d i s rising. Th e merciless sno w i s coming. And what can one woma n do against winter?

REFUGEE SCENE S

Lines written while homeless The seaso n o f snow arrive s with its old bitterness fastene d o n lik e buttons. In the night: me n arguing , boot s over broken glass and rubble, an infant squallin g for its mother, and the las t fires burning themselves out .

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*

After th e las t fires burned out , after th e dea d were loade d int o wagons, I followed you r cart away into th e wood s where yo u were t o be lef t unti l morning . I climbed u p onto th e wagon ; I lay down nex t t o you. I held to you and waited al l night for star s to come ou t like a child agai n in a bed o f darkness.

**

*

With cookin g pots an d sleeping childre n on our backs, the iro n lamp of the moo n not ligh t enoug h fo r th e road s again tonight,

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Refugee Scenes / 9 1

nothing rushes to sav e us, not even th e las t green shar d of summer . Why d o we g o o n trying to pus h ourselve s through this darkness into the ligh t again?

**

*

Grief lights the way, bright and stubborn a s a moon. And what would w e have to promis e to sustai n any heat we ar e offered tonight : an apple bough? A bent limb? kindling sticks ? a red tricycle? a child? two? the towns w e hav e passed through on ou r way to this? the dee p forest s o f our own woode n hearts ?

**

*

I tell you , I would go willingly int o exil e if I did not have to take my heart along. Some nights now th e dead walk throug h me lik e a door. When the y d o I pray. Hard. Al l night. On my knees lik e childre n do . And what o f the eye s of God ? Has someone als o put them out ?

IN TH E YEA R O F O U R LOR D

Christmas 1994 0 smal l Lor d of th e manger, littl e creche o f Chris t wher e I have laid me down to slee p like a dog at the master' s fee t each time thi s year the star s have buckle d and darkness has fallen int o me , 1 cast my gifts befor e yo u now. I give yo u back thi s night: o holy night . . . good tidings . . .all . I give yo u peace o n eart h as well a s all the thou shah nots on which I cut m y first teeth years ago; also the sham e I tucked beneat h m y pillow nightl y a s a child. I have a penchant, a gift fo r sin and there i s no undoin g it—only, always , You, my redeemer o f thorns and nails. Ove r th e sleep y tow n tonight th e sno w an d cold prevail an d the fals e prophets o f lights are loosed i n every windo w as far as I can see. Nigh t falls . I t falls, too , deepl y int o me . But the jawbone o f the as s is singing brightly in my head, Bring out your dead. And so I do . I offer u p the daughter , unname d an d blue, unwrap the swaddlin g cloth , und o th e ribbon , giv e he r back. Here, tak e the box she' s laid in too. 92

In the Year of Our Lord / 9 3

The pieta we hav e made fo r years , th e chil d an d I. Wait, ther e ar e more! ( O see , I' m generous t o a fault.) Take also the children who , i n this year of our Lord, were dressed , hai r combed, an d laid to res t in wooden boxe s in the eart h outside th e hunger village s while swee t mil k curdle d in our cups. Over the earth tonight, tha t song. And in the scienc e closet s somewhere , quiet, othe r childre n slee p curled 'roun d their fetal thumbs . They've close d thei r eyes ; they drif t now o n the soured sea s of formaldehyde . O littl e crucifix , tel l m e wha t to d o with a tongue tha t goes o n folding itsel f around the shap e of Amen yea r after year, loss after loss , chil d after dyin g child? What do I do in the yea r of weeping an d wailing and gnashing of teeth, my head thick wit h Fear not, for behold, my soul howling , fa r off, leashe d t o th e Word ? Each morning now , I sweep the dus t an d ash from thi s hearth, send the soft , cast-of f hai r of th e do g scurrying . Voice of the whirlwind o f my making, this : sound o f a broom ove r woode n floors, sound lik e the hem o f God' s robe moving throug h m y house.

I, O F TH E STOR M

For a faith-healer friend, dying of cancer, who has refused treatment I, o f the stor m tha t your dying is, I, o f the body's hungers and betrayals, I, o f the terro r that walks by night and the seve n last plagues o f man, I, o f a too-small faith , cannot mount th e feathere d backs of prayers and fly you off t o safety . Nor ca n I free mysel f of the dee p winter of my own nature : I want you to live . But the river o f your righteousnes s carries you off, a swift curren t runnin g down to God , an d you do not loo k back . You leave m e t o m y own device s which is why I am fashioning fo r yo u a sea-worthy vessel . When th e tim e is right, I will forg e als o a dove, a bright olive branch, the moist ti p of Ararat.

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THIS M O R N I N G , ALICE , YOU R BOOT S

Last night, yo u made you r way to my table again in spite o f the early snow, a new bruis e running along your lower jaw an d chin. You're hiding them now: smudge s o f blue and lilac, thos e almost-shadow s shiftin g thes e days over the stark planes and angles of your face. I noticed, too , the bright stains you left lik e lipstick o n the cu p rim. And when yo u noticed m e noticin g the m you blurted, I'll leave him next time he touches me. You'll see. But my kitchen, Lord , my kitche n has rung with tha t promise fo r years. I watched yo u storm awa y through the drifting sno w from m y back door to your s and, a s I watched yo u go, I listened fo r the crie s of late geese . Four years ago, a n early freeze lik e thi s fastene d five of them t o th e water' s icy edge . I stumbled o n them a t sunrise while I was fouling a poacher's traps. I thought I could hel p them get free , bu t every tim e I came near, the y pecked a t me i n terro r the way trapped thing s sometimes d o when the y cannot distinguish betwee n what will sav e them an d what will d o them in.

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96 / This Morning, Alice, Your Boots

Uphill agai n for half a mile, th e do g and I, for something t o cho p the ice away. While I rummaged i n the dank shed, I could hear them complainin g ou t o n the pond . Then downhill agai n with the axe through the col d win d an d trees. But they had flown! No, I thought they had flown. Up close, I could see th e te n stubbl y stick s of their legs still uprigh t i n the ice. And, i n the scuffe d snow , the poacher's tracks. This morning, Alice , you r boots: one tippe d drunkenl y agains t th e othe r in your front hallway and the undertake r making his way in through the snow , past police line s and flashbulbs and your husband's stunned , hun g over face framed i n the cruiser' s window .

EYE FO R A N EY E

If I could hate her like they do, if I could hate her that much, I could wan t her dead too, th e ange r which rises from hatred rising like a fist, Alpha and Omega, omnipotent , and maybe then I could forget , i n such hard anger as that, the two drowne d boy s as I imagine the y must have been that day, sleeping , strappe d into ca r seats while sh e stoo d in the Carolin a sun, somethin g snappin g in her, and sent the car over into the lake; like tha t night when somethin g snappe d ope n i n me and, before i t snapped shu t again, I' d slammed Earlie Jones* father s o hard in the fac e it broke his nose, s o hard that his head knocked back and cracked the wallboard behin d and he sli d to the floor. The crow d i n the E.R . cheere d when he went down ; he hid his face i n his hands and sobbed.

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98 / Eye foranEye

When th e docto r cam e ou t t o tel l hi m the n his boy had gone unconsciou s i n the next roo m an d died, the drun k man's face wen t slac k with what he'd done. No on e offere d hi m anything then: not a cloth fo r his nose, no t a word. So I slid down beside th e man and held t o him until he held back to m e an d we wep t an d rocked, like the worl d must have rocked unde r her that day when sh e saw what she had done.

RED

In memory of the grandmother whose name I adopted This bulging seam o f blue between th e thunderheads today : the colo r o f her eyes? No, bu t close enoug h after a storm to make me thin k again of her. Or maybe it's the red lo g cabin quilt I' m piecing : nine reds ravishing the eye s like the reds she painted her fingernails. How I envied those lon g bright nails, that color, I who, mor e tha n anything, wante d a red dress. You had to notice he r hands with colo r that bold drawing the eye , an d so you noticed to o the stub of the tent h finger and its neat whit e seam . What made me as k again, tha t morning, for the stor y o f her finger? I'd heard it many times by then; surely I had it by heart. A brief bird, Memory , bu t it fluttered in her eyes, thos e marble-blu e eyes , a s she told . Everything too, no t the stor y sh e spun for the rud e strangers who asked , th e sam e stor y I' d heard fo r years about her severing it in an airplane factor y durin g the war. I listened too , t o every word , an d never flinched, not once ,

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100 / Red not the wa y my father flinched and winced las t summe r when he told m e tha t once she' d prostituted herself . A hard word: prostituted. Differen t i n the mout h than "worked" or "labored." A red word. Garish . His tongue go t hung on it . I waited. Bu t not on e wor d fro m hi m about his father who' d found he r that night in the kitchen, who' d mad e her confes s wha t she' d done then brought th e hot knif e dow n an d maimed her. Not on e wor d abou t that red, garis h sin. She told m e tha t while sh e bled and tried t o stitc h the bloody en d close d wit h sewin g thread, he stood between he r and the door . Next time, h e said, I'll cut jour face. How d o I name thi s quilt, Grandmother , th e bol d re d pieces callin g you back t o me thi s morning ? Do I call it by your name, o r mine?

LIZARD WHISKEY : A PARTIN G GIF T FRO M VIE T NA M

For Wayne Karlin After th e meal i s done, you r son draws it ou t of the coo l spac e unde r the kitchen counter . When th e jar is lifted fre e o f the darkness, the whiskey' s tincture swarm s wit h scale s and flakes of skin like a glittery stor m i n one o f those Christma s snowglobes . The lizard's been i n there fo r years , gutted, giant , doubled ove r himself i n the quart-sized maso n jar, a smile o n his wizened face , hi s eyes almost rotted away ; he is giving himself ove r to the swirlin g an d the darknes s he's become a part of . When th e jar is tipped, a little o f the whiske y leaks onto th e boy's hand, th e stenc h of it so foul w e dra w back from hi m a s we onc e dre w back from ourselve s i n the lon g year s of that war. He wants to draw back too, bu t his hands cradle th e jar, the captiv e creatur e there , and he doe s no t le t go his hold o f it until he rights it finally in a way that we haven' t quite righte d anything . I look fro m hi s hands then to yours—thin, long-fingered , elegant almost a s a woman's—and I have to remin d myself: hands that turned a machine gun over a green country. I look als o at my hands which held the wounded o f that time and let som e o f them go, thoug h I cannot sa y that they have loosed thei r hold o n me . . . 101

102 / Lizard Whiskey: A Parting Gift from Viet Nam

What kept him intact s o long, thi s creature: the darkness?—the feti d water s around him? And what keeps us , despit e ourselves , tw o creature s curled an d fetal insid e tha t long-done war , words falling from u s like a storm?

THE M A N W H O STAY S SAN E

St. Benedict's Asylum for the Mentally 111, 1993 The man who stay s sane in this worl d is doing a difficult wor k an d you shoul d not trouble hi m with personal questions . Rather, as k him, "What do yo u think o f Sarajevo?" Or, "Who do you think wil l b e president?" Or, "Do you think we wil l hav e peace i n the Mideast?" If you make smal l tal k about the weather , he will tel l yo u how reliabl e th e su n is, even after terribl e storms . If you show him dar k cracks in the sidewalk , he will tel l yo u it is from suc h places marigolds rise . Poin t out th e rumpled ma n sleeping o n a bench next t o him, he will tel l yo u it's a good clot h fo r casua l wear. Ask him for money , i f you must; ask what's in his pockets, bu t do no t ask his name, o r the name o f the tow n where h e grew up . D o no t as k him if he eve r loved a woman o r had a son. His eyes are a window no w o n a blue-black sea .

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104 / The Man Who Stays Sane

Crimean. Se a dark as a bruise. He has dreamed latel y of going there t o live again, has worked man y years to acquir e th e fee . If you do ask him, say , about his mother, he wil l tel l yo u about her lon g dark hair or her soft eyes , o r that she san g to him; he will tel l yo u he loved her. He will fal l silent then for a long time. You will hav e to wait, al l morning maybe , before h e ca n tell yo u how, a s a boy, he stumble d o n her one mornin g and saw the violenc e i n her hands as she wrung and wrung, in the col d basin , the necks o f his dead father's shirts. Maybe he will tel l yo u then how sh e hung them in the noonday su n to dry, how sh e starched an d ironed them , ever y one , how, whe n sh e came t o th e blue shir t his father had loved best, sh e buried her face i n it and wept, how sh e folded eve n tha t one finally and gave it, with al l his other belongings, t o charity . If he only has one stor y no w t o tell ,

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let i t be th e on e he loves. Let him tel l i t to you ove r and over. Sit very stil l when he tells it, s o stil l you ca n almost se e th e windo w o n tha t sea when i t open s agai n and lets him in.

SUNDAY BRUNC H A T THE OLD COUNTRY BUFFET

Madison, Wisconsin, 1996 Here i s a genial congregation , well fed an d ros y wit h healt h an d appetite , robust childre n i n tow . The y hav e com e and al l the generation s o f them , t o b e fed , their ol d one s to o wh o ar e eligibl e no w for a small discount , havin g live d t o a ripe age . Over th e heape d an d steamin g plates , on e b y one , heads bow, eye s close; th e blessing s ar e said . Here ther e i s good will ; her e peac e on earth , amon g th e leaf y greens , amon g th e fruit s of the garden s o f America' s heartland . Her e i s abundance , here i s the promise d land o f milk an d honey , ou t o f whic h a flank of the fatte d calf , thic k stil l on it s socke t an d bone , rise s lik e a benedictio n over th e loave s o f bread an d th e littl e fishes, belly-u p i n butter.

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PERENNIALS

For my father, after a dream I. Everything ove r our heads now, ou t o f reach and dangerous—planes, planet s and satellites, telescopes, Go d and the reckless angels — but you insist o n a walk in the yard at dusk, lovin g what puts down root s in the earth: daffodils, re d tulips, whit e roses , lilies , thistle alon g the ston e wall . N o matte r to yo u that any of these coul d be torn by even a casual wind , or a hard rain, o r the snufflin g yello w do g who sniffs , then lifts hi s leg and douses the tulips goo d while yo u look o n an d laugh. "I' m like them," you say, scratching the dog's broad rump, "I keep making a comeback, yea r after year. " Sure, Pop, 1 thin k t o myself , and the sickness takes you out each winter for a walk in a bleaker garden.

II. Next yea r you could be to o ill , yo u could b e too wear y t o walk. We'l l si t together then , 1 guess . Side by side, quiet , i n the fallin g dark.

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108 / Perennials

Just lik e whe n I was little : yo u watching th e world . Me , watching you .

III. You want t o linge r i n th e evenin g cool . I leave yo u there . Whe n I look bac k from th e window , i t seem s yo u si t to o still ; you lea n heavily , crookedly , i n you r chair . I run bac k throug h th e yard ; I kneel i n fron t o f you , my fingers fluttering fo r you r pulse . You wake the n lik e a sleepy boy , smiling an d rubbin g you r eyes . You ask, "I s it tim e t o go?" IV Not jet. Not jet. V In the dream , sometimes , yo u los e yourself ; you wande r awa y fro m th e garde n at dusk . I am callin g ou t t o you . So are th e tulip s an d th e brigh t stalks o f gladiola. Als o th e yello w dog . God i s calling too , I think, and loudes t o f all.

GARDENS

For Jody Mahoney The other s hours-gone an d I am left agai n midmorning t o swep t floors, t o dishe s racked and drying, t o the ol d hum an d order o f a house and this day turning lik e the morning's laundry in a hot dryer. Outside, th e firs t green grasses struggle wit h dandelions between th e flagstones and the lon g beds of mud and mulch lie empt y still , hand-tilled an d turned fo r planting weeks ago. Somewhere, thi s morning, o n the fa r edge o f the continent , you are under the knife an d the needle , and I am here, year s past trying to sav e anyone, pas t even believing tha t I can. Because it is the onl y answe r I have to th e darknes s that being mortal i s — to lovin g wha t is also mortal an d being done i n — I spend the mornin g o n my knees, pushing dormant bulbs into the earth , trying to go s o deep tha t I'm deepe r i n than the palpable ache of the day, the fist of fear clenchin g an d unclenching i n me.

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110 / Gardens I remember agai n the man who bough t a plot o f land that had been a battleground, ho w h e wen t o n planting it for years , though only weeds came up , an d bitter water s after rain.

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By afternoon, su n spills throug h the back window s and the Englis h ivy and creepers tur n in their ceramic pots, swiveling t o embrace , i n a few hours ' time , wha t has fallen over them. The Wanderin g Jew, too , turn s from th e exil e o f its corner. Under the iron' s heat, th e starchy-swee t scent of my husband rises from hi s shirt, s o stron g I have to put the iro n down and press my face int o th e cloth , give mysel f over to wha t both is and is not there . Beyond me, o n th e back deck, th e windowbo x dahli a blooms and a stray calico moves alon g the wood' s weed y

edge. I take it in and in: the gardens, th e woods , the vacant beds, th e su n and soil. There i s never to o much , never enough .

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