You Must Remember This (7 page)

There are no clocks here. All we know is this room, and waiting.”

“For me,” he said.

There was no reply. The women exchanged glances. There was not

one among them that could tell him they had no navels, no scars.

Their bodies were like those of dolls, a smooth pink flatness round-

ing down the belly and around, unbroken.

Elpenor

               
There was a man, Elpenor, the youngest in our ranks, none too brave in battle, none too sound in mind
.

—
BOOK
10,
THE ODYSSEY

There he is, standing on the granite shingle, watching

a sail recede across the bright water, no larger than a swan.

The shouts that laced his dreams were preparations for departure.

He nuzzled into sleep, forgotten. Useless to raise his voice now,

yet the cries of the gulls cut sharply. He feels the morning breeze

blow through him like a ladder. He does not yet know that he is

dead, having run so hurriedly out of his broken-necked body.

But when he wanders back and sees the spine angled like a

snapped twig, the earth around soaked dark, he turns and runs

toward the glinting water and across the heaving waves, leaving

no tracks on their rolling hills, crying,
Wait! I'm here. I'm still here!

Look, Overlook

The wing

of a moth: fine ridges, dusty translucence, powdery

crumbling as it feathers between two

fingers: you

are made of such soft stuff, crumbling

beneath breath;

the dust on your things, your bookshelves and shoes, was once

skin, and your day of long walking is

done, not done

through wet grass, shadows, and

sight: the starling-spangled elm, the hinges of your hand, clouds

sledding on the wind.

III

The Dark Thing

It used to come into the light,

so deeply creased it seemed to be scarred,

bristling with hairs like a baby elephant.

Its hunger was slow and stolid but also

always there, tusks clicking above its steady

jaws as it moved among the trees.

Seeing the limit of its skin lessened it—

the way it lightened into pinkness near the lips

unnerved us. We hurled rocks and broken

concrete, even poked it with sticks

we'd blackened in the fire. When the first blade

cut and drew a startling thread of blood,

it moaned so quietly we backed away.

It sounds like my grandmother in her sleep,

someone whispered. We looked

at one another. The thing was barely

moving. Then the boy who'd spoken

unstrapped the knife from the stick, wiped it

clean on the grass and folded it

shut with a sharp click. That's enough,

he said. It had been so much

easier than we'd imagined.

This is what we would have said,

if we had spoken of it again.

The Book of _______________

First, there is the consideration of my appearance which even those

who care for me say is troublesome. It is not simply the coarseness

of hair coming from where one does not anticipate hair, but also

things beneath the surface that stretch the skin and hinges that work

differently, so I am both more and less mobile than your kind and though

I've learned to walk upright as a man, when I'm alone I scuttle sideways.

I am quite fast. I hope I can say this without boasting. I am told

I appear more liquid than solid when I wend across a room, feathering

over couches, tables and other obstructions rather than walking round.

Uneven surfaces disturb me no more than trees disturb the wind.

People do not tell me these things in admiration but as explanation

for the fear that glitters in their eyes. I try to speak softly but my voice

breaks like glass. When they found me, I was feeding on venison. A doe,

toppled on the roadside and risen in the afternoon sun. I kept my vigil

until dusk, then scissored slowly up the bank and started in. I was young.

Headlights astonished me. I was docile, easily taken. The whole escapade

leaves me with a feeling of vague shame and chagrin, especially now

that I've learned to read and can place the incident on the shelf of context.

I have a window in my room overlooking the garden from which I see

the crowns of trees, and in the evening the sunset gilds the rooftops then

stretches a blanket of shadow across them until darkness eats the world.

They were kind enough to tint the window for me so that I can see

out but no one can see in which might sound like a lonely thing to say

but I understand. I have foresworn using my pincers to sever the cordage

of my meals though knife and fork feel dull as cold toes. Yet the fear

remains in others' eyes and is there always, so much so that I wonder

if it is not unfounded. I have dreams. Some I am not inclined to share,

but there is one that continues to return and seems innocent enough.

It seems to spring from your world more than mine and I wonder if you

might be willing to interpret its signs. I cannot tell it with words but must

write the dream upon the world with my body. I have been waiting

to do this for a long time. My joints ache to unfurl. You were kind

to listen. Let me offer my dream in return. Open the door. Let me out.

Nuns

Have you heard the one about the nun and the penguin

in the bathtub and the nun drops the soap

and says to the penguin, Do you think you could

fish that out? And the penguin says, What do you think I am,

a radio? We used to tell it in school, everyone

standing in a circle and laughing like jackals, except for the one

not in on the joke, which in this particular poem

is you, because it's not a joke at all

just a misleading non sequitur

designed to bait the unwitting

into falling into laughter alongside everyone else

so they could then be turned upon and savagely asked:

               
What's so fucking funny?

As we watched them squirm to explain, grasping

at the tuxedoed symmetry of nuns and penguins,

the real laughter thundered out and made it

clear how much we'd learned.

The Shop Across the Street

I walked outside and looked to where the sky used to be.

The new laminate is better than I feared, I murmured,

but why this watery yellow? Why not sky blue?

The president's voice crackled over the loudspeakers

and announced that yellow was
something-something

but the spatter of white noise drowned him out.

The shop across the street—the one that sells clay figurines—

was not much help. Did you understand the president?

I asked, a little out of breath from running across the avenue.

The storekeeper smiled and said,

I am not able to recognize the president

even when I look right at him.

How much is that, I said, pointing at a figurine,

a little man, posed on a shelf behind him.

Oh, that one is not for sale.

                                                    
Why not?

Because it's me.

I leaned across the counter to peer at the tiny face

and saw that it was true: a perfect likeness. Well, I said,

whirling to leave, I guess now we know who the whore is.

The People Who Came Afterward

lived oblivious to the drifting veils of rain.

There were no fences. The point of existence

was to gather things in concentric rings

so possessions formed the hive where you lived.

It was the most effective prison ever devised

by humans. When the downpour came to melt

it away, filling depressions with grit and soft clay,

pottery shards returned to their element—bones

came unbound. Glass rose like fins from the ground.

The Professional

She arrived in a dark suit and a mask-like smile, explaining

her services in a manner so polished it almost put us off.

This is my specialty, she soothed. Both mind and house

will be empty as a mountain wind once I'm done. I sensed

she'd said those words before. We sat at the kitchen table,

you and I, looking at one another, hoping the other felt more

certain, more assured. Once we signed, it would take years

before we acknowledged our mistake. She'd left the whole day

open, and could begin immediately. Was there perhaps a guest

room where she could change? Her assistant arrived with

a black duffel, fresh white towels, and a stainless-steel basin.

I didn't know the basin would be so big, I murmured.

We looked at one another warily. It isn't always a clean process,

she reassured. You do understand, once I'm sequestered, it is

very important that I not be disturbed. We nodded. She closed

the door with an audible click. For the first few hours, it seemed

okay. Her assistant sat out in the van, with the windows down,

reading. We sat in the living room and tried to do the same,

ignoring the sounds coming from the guest room, sighs that

sharpened into cries. When a few faces started disappearing

in the photographs above the piano, you leapt to your feet.

This isn't right, you said. These things shouldn't be removed.

But what about the pain? I asked. Don't you want it gone?

No, you said, pointing to the image of a child, suddenly frantic.

The eyes had faded to nothing. From forehead to cheekbone

was just smooth skin. I ran to the window. The van was gone,

as was the tire swing that had been there an hour earlier. I looked

and saw the elm losing its limbs, one by one. Maybe we can still

get some of our money back, I said. And then you said: I want her

gone. The assistant had sealed the door shut with tape. It came

off with a spattering sound, and the shrieks from inside paused.

Then the voice came, a strangled croak as I opened the door

and saw her, smaller than I remembered, perched on the dresser,

her suit pooled on the floor beneath her. Her face had become

a sort of beak, hinged open and hissing. But it was the children

that were upsetting, sitting in a circle at her feet, quietly singing.

Imperfection

                            
after Tomaž Šalamun

Leather without history

is merely the skin of the dead

animals that once walked these fields.

Strength without rickets

can be seen on any playground.

Consider the appetite

of these children and remember:

blood is silk.

Walk silently away. Drop your empty

cup in the receptacle. Note

how the plastic helmet is stained brown

from where your lips drew coffee

out with a wet sound.
Blood is like fruit
.

Maybe spend a moment

thinking about the tanks and hunger

but keep moving.