III
Poor travelers, I thought, seeing myself among
them: always somewhere else.
āW. G. Sebald, Vertigo
Transparency
Years later (43) my father offers a nameāsays
I looked over the desk, saw the paperwork stray
when the caseworker ducked into the backroomā
says this casually, over the phone, in the middle of some
playoff talk about the Phillies or the weather in Florida,
recounts it as a known fact, something I must have
learned long ago, and forgotten, like the allegory
of the chariot pulled by two horsesātells me her name was
Madeleine, just like thatāI thought you knewā
as if everyone in Wilmington, Delaware knewā
knew the circumstances, the chemical shame,
1967, the indelible fact of having gotten herself
pregnant by no name my father can recall seeingā
just Madeleine of the typescript, Madeleine
of the dotted line, Madeleine of the horse & buggy split.
Iām thinking 17, Iām thinking dropped out
of high school, sight unseen, I really donāt know,
except in one iteration my name is Michael,
that I knew by 8th grade, at least, when Lori Wiedner
started calling me that, Lori the first flute,
Lori the perennial September crush who sometimes flirted
though usually not, though she would offer up
magnanimous middle school warmth and alarm
and thus in her eyes did I begin to live that other
boyās life as well as I could before the World Book
Encyclopediaāpeeling back layers of see-through anatomy
to get to the nervous systemāautonomous
if not sympatheticāthe skeletal remains,
the blank page wavering behind it allā
I have been poring through your absence all these years
scratching out name after name
Linear A
I am the city
as you remember it,
save one.
I am a dark
incisionācatās eye or claw
in a field of slash and burn.
No sooner said than
waves will slosh
on a half-moon beachā
fond of their habit
and the leisure of five
wild swans.
(My rivalās an archive
of miscarried fleece.)
Divulge what you will,
embryonic kri-kri swimming
circles around our knuckles,
gold goddess hovering
like a hornet
in a thumbprint epiphany.
Even stones
have pastimesāstepping down,
weighing in.
Now hindsight flickers like a bullās
bright horn
cleared by a headlong
running leap.
(Weāre beginning to tabulate
our livestock in dreams.)
When summer
fills the lustral basins
with green water, terrapins
ringing the cistern
like a loose archipelagoā
when the whole
sluggish island nose-dives
like a foundering whaleā
I am the ladle they call
Diaspora,
I am the rhyton
whose measure is tears.
Drink up. Wish me luck.
(Cuttlefish thrash in a whirlpool cup.)
So that blue monkeys swing
in turpentine trees,
so that blue women
chatter like chickpeas in jars:
all the figs of Memphis
are not sweeter than your fingertipsā
so long out of touch, so long out of touch
they trace their lineage in scar.
Persona Non Grata
. . . and indeed were not particularly welcome in any of the statesā the vagrants, old soldiers, travelling theatrical companies, pedlarsā all these silted up on the frontier like floating rubbish on a riverās banks.
āPenelope Fitzgerald, The Blue Flower
I wore a mask made of holes,
none of which weep. I was armed
like a gladiator to face assimilated sheep.
I could only nod or shake, never blink,
never strike like a bowling ball
in a back alley brawl. I was a chain letter
composed of missing links. It wasnāt my style
to menace or gloat.
Hereās what I learned: like a bowling ball
tossed into the drink, half of us sink
and half of us float. Which is why it took ...