Most of marriage is managing comfort and discomfort in such a way you can live with a person who steals half of everything you buy. You have agreed to steal half back of whatever he or she buys of course. You make each other cry occasionally, and if that’s all you’ve got, you’ve got a problem. Most of crying is embarrassment, as most of the river is other people’s dirt. Most of work is waiting. Almost nothing sold can stay. Staying around is after all mostly not having anywhere else to go. There are two minutes of terrible pain before loading or emptying the dishwasher or the washing machine, and then the rest is mostly reassembling an old kitchen you remember. Before the in-laws for the children for the strangers throwing rice into your freshly cut hair.
Say goodbye to her, the America you thought you could take
as, suddenly, all that silence you bought long ago begins to leak.
You were never worthy, only wealthy. It’s an easy mistake,
in America, to assume all a god needs to do is to speak
and make his enemies disappear. Your own sons
hunted leopards without fear, casting off their bodies.
Your daughters fit themselves to your small hands.
Around you men calculated disasters into profits, bought
judges like baklava, turned the poor into things to bear your name.
Your gardeners’ bushhogs went silent as you stepped out
of your enormous black limousines onto your enormous lawns,
or into your enormous gardens full of things you couldn’t smell.
Now the smoke of sharpening scythes clings to your ties;
the voices of the women you thought you’d smothered in gold
are rematerializing. There never was a god after all.
Watch the processions of smiling politicians sneaking away,
their hands in their pockets at last, their tails tucked under,
their horns under their hats. Let them go. Don’t whine.
They move in a world of such belief it makes them mean.
So what if your sponsors are already forgetting your name,
if it’s all you ever had? Say goodbye to it. Like a cloud.
after Cavafy’s The God Abandons Antony
Doing what, the right hand
doesn’t always seem to know.
Having given up the work
of subtle textures, the snug
handshake, the little ways
dominance betrays its teeth.
Why do we put a ring on it?
For its commitment? Its ability
to stay quiet, to maintain balance?
Its occasional silliness?
It remembers the name before
your name; every so often
you need to see again what a wreck
it was before the right took over.
It watches the margins for crumbs.
It loves the universe you made
on the napkin unconsciously
dabbing the water or the too thick
colors from your delicate brush
while you were trying to get right
some flowers, a thistle,
I ate the coffee cake because I wanted
to eat a sunflower. I drank the coffee
because I wanted to be a sunflower.
I chose my loose clothes, I chose these dark shoes
so I might keep my sunflower secret
from the small birds who steal things for a living.
I choose my word carefully, tilt my face
into the solar locutions, make of myself
a field of rustling so rich a man might
never tire of saying sunflower, sunflower.
one empty, one still packed with feathers–
I cannot choose between. I take them both.
The one’s stalled seed silks are so delicate
I can’t feel anything when I touch them,
a series of desires, phantoms, angels,
beginning to yellow. All the dry rattle of September
lost, twisted free or matted now,
it had its chance. It still has its chances,
I have trained myself to say over the years,
the stem stripped of everything green and beaten down.
The open pod might after all be laughing, surprised.
Once, what I didn’t want I didn’t see.
I might have killed myself for history.
Now there’s hardly anything I don’t want
and want can mean any touch at all,
any shift of the light toward my shadow-
making self, any little a lot of such
beauty, and all suffering, temporary.
To touch any part of the dance, until
that wince and crack of the sudden handshake
out wandering with my quiet dog between dark
and constellations opening overhead.
What’s it like to have no more
things now no anxiety to dust
no furniture to rearrange a mood
no doors to worry no carpets to make
straight vacuum again no sleepless window
to look at the dark through no remote
to find no glasses no more tv
or jigsaw puzzles or sudoku or chocolate muffins
where is memory then and how now
we who watched you carried out and signed
the contract to turn you into grit we who sold
the place and killed the cat who boxed up
what we wanted to keep where are we among
no bright leaves to kick no empty thistles pick
If there is a darkness. If there has already been
a mouth, many mouths, depths reached down into.
Among the small exploratory hairs in the darkness.
Among the quiet whispering of desires sliding against one another
in the earth. In the darkness. Something pulled free.
Something unafraid of not being a flower.
Other. Sweetened by roasting, by fire.
(October 1, 2016)
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