Map (32 page)

 

This one here, that one down there, those on the end:

before they grew to reach a doorknob,

break a watch,

smash their first windowpane.

 

Malgorzata, four years old,

two of them spent staring at the ceiling.

 

Rafalek: missed his fifth birthday by a month,

and Zuzia missed Christmas,

when misty breath turns to frost.

 

And what can you say about one day of life,

a minute, a second:

darkness, a lightbulb's flash, then dark again?

 

KOSMOS MAKROS

CHRONOS PARADOKSOS

Only stony Greek has words for that.

 

 

As long as nothing can be known for sure,

(no signals have been picked up yet),

 

as long as Earth is still unlike

the nearer and more distant planets,

 

as long as there's neither hide nor hair

of other grasses graced by other winds,

of other treetops bearing other crowns,

other animals as well grounded as our own,

 

as long as only the local echo

has been known to speak in syllables,

 

as long as there's still no word

of better or worse mozarts,

platos, edisons out there,

 

as long as our inhuman crimes

are still committed only among humans,

 

as long as our kindness

is still incomparable,

peerless even in its imperfection,

 

as long as our heads packed with illusions

still pass for the only heads so packed,

 

as long as the roofs of our mouths alone

still raise voices to high heavens—

 

let's act like very special guests of honor

at the district fireman's ball,

dance to the beat of the local oompah band,

and pretend that it's the ball

to end all balls.

 

I can't speak for others—

for me this is

misery and happiness enough:

 

just this sleepy backwater

where even the stars have time to burn

while winking at us

unintentionally.

 

 

Life is the only way

to get covered in leaves,

catch your breath on the sand,

rise on wings;

 

to be a dog,

or stroke its warm fur;

 

to tell pain

from everything it's not;

 

to squeeze inside events,

dawdle in views,

to seek the least of all possible mistakes.

 

An extraordinary chance

to remember for a moment

a conversation held

with the lamp switched off;

 

and if only once

to stumble on a stone,

end up drenched in one downpour or another,

 

mislay your keys in the grass;

and to follow a spark on the wind with your eyes;

 

and to keep on not knowing

something important.

 

 

I've made a list of questions

to which I no longer expect answers,

since it's either too early for them,

or I won't have time to understand.

 

The list of questions is long,

and takes up matters great and small,

but I don't want to bore you,

and will just divulge a few:

 

What was real

and what scarcely seemed to be

in this auditorium,

stellar and substellar,

requiring tickets for entrance

and exit alike;

 

What about the whole live world,

which I won't manage

to compare with any other living world;

 

What will the papers

write about tomorrow;

 

When will wars cease,

and what will replace them;

 

Whose third finger now wears

the ring

stolen from me—lost;

 

What's the place of free will,

which manages to be and not to be

simultaneously;

 

What about those scores of people—

did we really know each other;

 

What was M. trying to tell me

when she could no longer speak;

 

Why did I take bad things

for good ones

and what would it take

to keep from doing it again?

 

There are certain questions

I jotted down just before sleep.

On waking

I couldn't make them out.

 

Sometimes I suspect

that it's a real code,

but that question, too,

will take its leave one day.

 

 

Everything—

a smug and bumptious word.

It should be written in quotes.

It pretends to miss nothing,

to gather, hold, contain, and have.

While all the while it's just

a shred of gale.

 

 

 

 

COLON

 

2005

 

 

A few minor changes

and my mother might have married

Mr. Zbigniew B. from Zduńska Wola.

And if they'd had a daughter—she wouldn't have been me.

Maybe with a better memory for names and faces,

and any melody heard once.

Adept at telling one bird from another.

With perfect grades in chemistry and physics,

and worse in Polish,

but secretly writing poems

instantly more interesting than mine.

 

A few minor changes

and my father might at that same time have married

Miss Jadwiga R. from Zakopane.

And if they'd had a daughter—she wouldn't have been me.

Maybe standing her ground more stubbornly.

Plunging headfirst into deep water.

Susceptible to group emotions.

Always seen in several spots at once,

but rarely with a book, more often in the yard

playing kickball with the boys.

 

They might even have met

in the same school, the same room.

But not kindred spirits,

no affinities,

at opposite ends of class photos.

 

Stand here, girls

—the photographer would call—

shorter girls in front, tall girls behind.

And big smiles when I say cheese.

But one more head count,

that's everyone?

 

—Yes sir, that's all.

 

 

I'll never find out now

what A. thought of me.

If B. ever forgave me in the end.

Why C. pretended everything was fine.

What part D. played in E.'s silence.

What F. had been expecting, if anything.

Why G. forgot when she knew perfectly well.

What H. had to hide.

What I. wanted to add.

If my being nearby

meant anything

for J. and K. and the rest of the alphabet.

 

 

They still don't know

what happened on the highway

half an hour ago.

 

On their watches

it's just the same old time,

afternoonish, Thursdayish, September.

 

Someone is draining macaroni.

Someone is raking leaves.

Squealing children race around the table.

Someone's cat deigns to be patted.

Someone is crying—

as always when bad Diego

betrays Juanita on TV.

Someone is knocking—

nothing, the neighbor with a borrowed frying pan.

A phone rings deep in the apartment—

just telemarketing for now.

 

If someone were to stand at the window

and look out at the sky,

he might catch sight of clouds

drifting over from the accident.

Torn and tattered, to be sure,

but that's business as usual for them.

 

 

The morning is expected to be cool and foggy.

Rainclouds

will move in from the west.

Poor visibility.

Slick highways.

 

Gradually as the day progresses

high pressure fronts from the north

make local sunshine likely.

Due to winds, though, sometimes strong and gusty,

sun may give way to storms.

 

At night

clearing across the country,

with a slight chance of precipitation

only in the southeast.

Temperatures will drop sharply,

while barometric readings rise.

 

The next day

promises to be sunny,

although those still living

should bring umbrellas.