Map (3 page)

 

And that's no necklace, that's her rosary.

Her shoes have toes turned up from daily kneeling.

Scarf dark as all the nights she sits up, weary,

and waits to hear the morning church bells pealing.

 

Scrubbing the mirror once, she saw a devil:

Bless me, Father, he shot a nasty look.

Blue with yellow stripes, eyes black as kettles—

you don't think he'll write me in his book?

 

And so she gives at Mass, she prays the mysteries,

and buys a small heart with a silver flame.

Since work began on the new rectory,

the devils have all run away in shame.

 

The cost is high, preserving souls from sin,

but only old folks come here, scraping by.

With so much of nothing, razor-thin,

Hania would vanish in the Needle's Eye.

 

May, renounce your hues for wintery gray.

Leafy bough, throw off your greenery.

Clouds, repent; sun, cast your beams away.

Spring, save your blooms for heaven's scenery.

 

I never heard her laughter or her tears.

Raised humble, she owns nothing but her skin.

A shadow walks beside her—her mortal fears,

her tattered kerchief yammers in the wind.

 

 

Nothing can ever happen twice.

In consequence, the sorry fact is

that we arrive here improvised

and leave without the chance to practice.

 

Even if there is no one dumber,

if you're the planet's biggest dunce,

you can't repeat the class in summer:

this course is only offered once.

 

No day copies yesterday,

no two nights will teach what bliss is

in precisely the same way,

with exactly the same kisses.

 

One day, perhaps, some idle tongue

mentions your name by accident:

I feel as if a rose were flung

into the room, all hue and scent.

 

The next day, though you're here with me,

I can't help looking at the clock:

A rose? A rose? What could that be?

Is it a flower or a rock?

 

Why do we treat the fleeting day

with so much needless fear and sorrow?

It's in its nature not to stay:

today is always gone tomorrow.

 

With smiles and kisses, we prefer

to seek accord beneath our star,

although we're different (we concur)

just as two drops of water are.

 

 

So here we are, the naked lovers,

lovely, as we both agree,

with eyelids as our only covers

we lie in the dark, invisibly.

 

But they already know, they know,

all four corners, the night air,

the upright table and the stove,

suspicious shadows fill the chairs.

 

The tea grows cold; the cups know why,

although the reason's left unsaid.

Swift must lay his hopes aside,

his book lies open, but unread.

 

As for the birds? I saw them flying

yesterday as, without shame,

they scrawled across the open sky

the letters spelling out your name.

 

As for the trees? Well, can't you hear

what they keep whispering about?

You say it's in the atmosphere,

but how'd the atmosphere find out?

 

A moth flies in the open window

on furry wings, it hovers first,

then soars above and swoops below,

and stubbornly hums over us.

 

Perhaps it catches what we miss

with its uncanny insect sight?

I didn't see, you didn't guess,

our hearts were glowing in the night.

 

 

First, our love will die, alas,

then two hundred years will pass,

then we'll meet again at last—

 

this time in the theater, played

by a couple of comedians,

him and her, the public's darlings.

 

Just a little farce, with songs,

patter, jokes, and final bows,

a vaudeville comedy of manners,

certain to bring down the house.

 

You'll amuse them endlessly

on the stage with your cravat

and your petty jealousy.

 

So will I, love's silly pawn,

with my heart, my joy, my crown,

my heart broken, my joy gone,

my crown tumbling to the ground.

 

To the laughter's loud refrain,

we will meet and part again,

seven mountains, seven rivers

multiplying our pain.

 

If we haven't had enough

of despair, grief, all that stuff,

lofty words will kill us off.

 

Then we'll stand up, take our bows:

hope that you've enjoyed our show.

Every patron with his spouse

will applaud, get up, and go.

 

They'll reenter their lives' cages,

where love's tiger sometimes rages,

but the beast's too tame to bite.

 

We'll remain the odd ones out,

silly heathens in their fools' caps,

listening to the small bells ringing

day and night.

 

 

They made love in a hazel grove,

beneath the little suns of dew;

dry leaves and twigs got in their hair

and dry dirt too.

 

Swallow's heart, have

mercy on them.

 

They both knelt down on the lakeshore,

they combed the dry leaves from their hair;

small fish, a star's converging rays,

swam up to stare.

 

Swallow's heart, have

mercy on them.

 

Reflected in the rippling lake,

trees trembled, nebulous and gray;

O swallow, let them never, never

forget this day.

 

O swallow, cloud-borne thorn,

anchor of the air,

Icarus improved,

coattails in Assumption,

 

O swallow, calligraphy,

clockhand minus minutes,

early ornithogothic,

heaven's cross-eyed glance,

 

O swallow, knife-edged silence,

mournful exuberance,

the aureole of lovers,

have mercy on them.

 

 

WHOEVER'S
found out what location

compassion (heart's imagination)

can be contacted at these days

is herewith urged to name the place,

and sing about it in full voice,

and dance like crazy and rejoice

beneath the frail birch that appears

to be upon the verge of tears.

 

I TEACH
silence

in all languages

through intensive examination of:

the starry sky,

the Sinanthropus's jaws,

a grasshopper's hop,

an infant's fingernails,

plankton,

a snowflake.

 

I RESTORE
lost love.

Act now! Special offer!

You lie on last year's grass

bathed in sunlight to the chin

while winds of summers past

caress your hair and seem

to lead you in a dance.

For further details, write: “Dream.”

 

WANTED:
someone to mourn

the elderly who die

alone in old folks' homes.

Applicants, don't send forms

or birth certificates.

All papers will be torn,

no receipts will be issued

at this or later dates.

 

FOR PROMISES
made by my spouse,

who's tricked so many with his sweet

colors and fragrances and sounds—

dogs barking, guitars in the street—

into believing that they still

might conquer loneliness and fright,

I cannot be responsible.

Mr. Day's widow, Mrs. Night.

 

 

Wait, you can't go in there,

it's all smoke and flames!

—Four kids got trapped inside,

I'm going in for them!

 

So how do you

suddenly lose the habit

of yourself?

of day follows night?

of the snows of yesteryear?

of rosy apples?

of the yearning for love,

which is never enough?

 

No goodbyes on either side,

she goes to help the kids alone,

she wades through fire to her thighs,

she grabs them up and swings them high,

her hair catches the flames' glow.

 

But she'd wanted to buy a ticket,

take a quick vacation,

write a letter,

open the window after a storm,

beat a track through the woods,

admire ants,