by David Lehman
to pretend to feel, to play along (was that too much to ask?)
and throw myself into the part so we could both, this once
at least, rise to the occasion of what we never shared.
That final day, for instance, the way the Fighting Sullivans on TV
seemed to watch us watch them as a taunt or dare parade their
small town big war grieving fanfare across the screen,
the five sons killed in battle, only the old man holding back,
not crying when he’s told the news, not breaking down or
even touching the wife he still calls mother, a stoicism fraught
with all the feeling he stuffs back down inside him as he grabs
his lunch pail, heads to work, just as he would on any other day,
the only hint of sorrow the salute he gives as the train chugs past
the water tower on the top of which the apparitions of his boys
stand waving calling out goodbye pop, see you round pop—
and as the credits roll she’s asking if there’s anything, anything
at all about the past, the family, her childhood that I’d like to
hear about before she dies, her voice decked out so gaudily
in matriarchal sweetness that I freeze, I shake my head, say,
no, ma, no, I’m good. And just like that the scene is over,
the sweetness vanishes into the air, into thin air, like the
baseless fabric of the mawkish film, an insubstantial pageant
faded as she nods and grimaces and turns away
relieved (it almost seemed) that that was that. Was us. Was me.
The role that I was born for, and she was done with now.
And yet it’s never done, is it. The pageant’s never faded.
Shake off the cold and it gets colder. There’s just no end
to how cold the cold can get, not even on the coldest nights,
not even if I throw the windows open wide and turn
the ceiling fan on high and lie in bed, uncovered,
naked, shivering inward back into myself as if to draw
the cold in with me deeper, down to the icy center stage
where I will always find her frozen in the act of turning from me
while I stand freezing saying, no, I’m good.
from The Threepenny Review
JANE SHORE
* * *
Who Knows One
Who knows One. I know One.
One is God for God is One—
The only One in Heaven and on earth.
Who knows two. I know two.
Two are the first two: Adam and Eve.
One is God for God is One—
It takes one to know one.
Who knows three. I know three.
Bad things always come in threes.
Two trees grew in the Garden of Eden.
One is God for God is One—
One rotten apple spoils the barrel.
Who knows four. I know four.
What were you doing on all fours?
Three’s the hearts in a ménage à trois.
Two’s the jump ropes in double Dutch.
One is God for God is One—
One good turn deserves another.
Who knows five. I know five.
Five is the five in Slaughterhouse-Five.
Four is Egypt’s plague of flies.
Three the Stooges on TV.
Two the two-faced lie he told.
One is God for God is One—
One hand washes the other.
Who knows six. I know six.
Six are the wives of Henry VIII.
Who? What? Where? When? Why?
Four the phases of the moon.
Three the bones inside the ear.
Two eyes—the better to see you with, my dear.
One is God for God is One—
There’s only one to a customer.
Who knows seven. I know seven.
Seven the year of the seven-year itch.
Six the paper anniversary.
Asked if he did it, he pleaded the Fifth.
Four are my absent wisdom teeth.
Three is the three in the third degree.
Two can play that game.
One is God for God is One—
Public Enemy No. 1.
Who knows eight. I know eight.
The Beatles’“Eight Days a Week.”
Wrath is the seventh of the deadly sins.
Six of one, half a dozen of the other.
He lost it all in five-card stud.
Four bits in a nibble equals half a byte.
Three is the beginning, middle, and end.
Two are the graves in the family plot.
One is God for God is One—
The only one in a hole in one.
Who knows nine. I know nine.
Nine are the lives of an average cat.
Eight is the day of circumcision.
Seven the locks on Samson’s head.
Six the sense I wish I had.
Five the five in nickeled-and-dimed.
Four cold feet in the double bed.
Three’s a crowd.
Two’s company.
One is God for God is One—
The only one in a one-night stand.
Who knows ten. I know ten.
I wouldn’t touch that with a ten-foot pole.
She dressed to the nines.
Fellini’s 81/2.
Seven the times the bride circles the groom.
Six the number perfect in itself.
She daubed her wrists with Chanel No. 5.
Love is just a four-letter word.
Three is as phony as a three-dollar bill.
Two is the two in doubletalk.
One is God for God is One—
There’s one born every minute.
Who knows eleven. I know eleven.
Eleven are the stars in Joseph’s dream.
Ten is the Roman Numeral X.
Possession is nine-tenths of the law.
Infinity’s a sideways figure eight.
Seven long years Jacob had to wait.
Six is the Lover’s Tarot card.
Five is indivisible.
Four, cruel April.
Three witches in the Scottish play.
Two is the two of “I and Thou.”
One is God for God is One—
One in the hand is worth two in the bush.
Who knows twelve. I know twelve.
Twelve are the face cards in a deck.
Eleven are the thieves in Ocean’s Eleven.
Take a deep breath and count to ten.
It takes nine tailors to make a man.
Eight are the people on Noah’s ark.
Seven are the hues in a rainbow’s arc.
Six is . . . I can’t remember what.
Five the rivers of the Underworld.
Four the rivers of Paradise.
Three on a match.
It takes two to tango.
One is God for God is One—
In one ear and out the other.
Who knows thirteen. I know thirteen.
Thirteen is the skyscraper’s missing floor.
Twelve are the men who walked on the moon.
At the eleventh hour, his life was spared.
Do not covet your neighbor’s ass.
Nine are the circles of Dante’s Hell.
Eight is the game of crazy eights.
The phone was busy 24/7.
They deep-sixed their love affair.
The five-o’clock shadow on your face.
Four is putting two and two together.
Three is the eternal triangle.
Two plays second fiddle.
Two minus one equals one.
One is one all alone.
You were my one and only one—
The only one whose number’s up.
from The New Yorke
r
TRACY K. SMITH
* * *
The Greatest Personal Privation
The greatest personal privation I have had to endure has been the want of either Patience or Phoebe—tell them I am never, if life is spared us, to be without both of them again.
—letter from Mary Jones to Elizabeth Jones Maxwell regarding two of her slaves, 30 August 1849
1.
It is a painful and harassing business
Belonging to her. We have had trouble enough,
Have no comfort or confidence in them,
And they appear unhappy themselves, no doubt
From the trouble they have occasioned.
They could dispose of the whole family
Without consulting us—Father, Mother,
Every good cook, washer, and seamstress
Subject to sale. I believe Good shall be
Glad if we may have hope of the loss of trouble.
I remain in glad conscience, at peace with God
And the world! I have prayed for those people
Many, many, very many times.
2.
Much as I should miss Mother,
I have had trouble enough
And wish no more to be
Only waiting to be sent
Home in peace with God.
3.
In every probability
We may yet discover
The whole country
Will not come back
From the sale of parent
And child. So far
As I can see, the loss
Is great and increasing.
I know they have desired
We should not know
What was for our own good,
But we cannot be all the cause
Of all that has been done.
4.
We wish to act. We may yet.
But we have to learn what their
Character and moral conduct
Will present. We have it in
Contemplation to wait and see.
If good, we shall be glad; if
Evil, then we must meet evil
As best we can.
5.
Father, mother, son, daughter, man.
And if that family is sold:
Please—
We cannot—
Please—
We have got to—
Please—
The children—
Mother and Father and husband and—
All of you—
All—
I have no more—
How soon and unexpectedly cut off
Many, many, very many times.
from The Believer
A. E. STALLINGS
* * *
Harm’s Way
It sounds like a country road.
It sounds like the swerve
Into the oncoming lane
Of a blind curve,
One teenager goading another
About their nerve;
It sounds like a wet stretch
Where a bridge tosses
Its back over a river
And a valley of mosses,
The humble guardrail studded
With makeshift crosses,
Like the shrug of black ice
As the cold gets colder
Running next to the ditch
Off the soft shoulder
Where the odometer stops
And no one gets older,
Or the path in a fairy tale
Through an ancient wood
Where the crumbs you dropped are gobbled
And you’re lost for good.
And I would keep you out of it
If I only could.
from The Hopkins Review
ARTHUR SZE
* * *
The White Orchard
Under a supermoon, you gaze into the orchard—
a glass blower shapes a glowing orange mass into a horse—
you step into a space where you once lived—
crushed mica glitters on plastered walls—
a raccoon strolls in moonlight along the top of an adobe wall—
swimming in a pond, we notice a reflected cottonwood on the water—
clang: a deer leaps over the gate—
every fifteen minutes an elephant is shot for its tusks—
you mark a bleached earless lizard against the snowfall of this white page—
the skins of eggplants glistening in a garden—
our bodies glistening by firelight—
though skunks once ravaged corn, our bright moments cannot be ravaged—
sleeping near a canal, you hear lapping waves—
at dawn, waves lapping and the noise of men unloading scallops and shrimp—
no noise of gunshots—
you focus on the branches of hundred-year-old apple trees—
opening the door, we find red and yellow rose petals scattered on our bed—
then light years—
you see pear branches farther in the orchard as the moon rises—
branches bending under the snow of this white page—
from The Kenyon Review
NATASHA TRETHEWEY
* * *
Duty
When he tells the story now
he’s at the center of it,
everyone else in the house
falling into the backdrop—
my mother, grandmother,
an uncle, all dead now—props
in our story: father and daughter
caught in memory’s half-light.
I’m too young to recall it,
so his story becomes the story:
1969, Hurricane Camille
bearing down, the old house
shuddering as if it will collapse.
Rain pours into every room
and he has to keep moving,
keep me out of harm’s way—
a father’s first duty: to protect.
And so, in the story, he does:
I am small in his arms, perhaps
even sleeping. Water is rising
around us and there is no
higher place he can take me
than this, memory forged
in the storm’s eye: a girl
clinging to her father. What
can I do but this? Let him
tell it again and again as if
it’s always been only us,
and that, when it mattered,
he was the one who saved me.
from Time
OCEAN VUONG
* * *
Partly True Poem Reflected in a Mirror
i want to find a gun / and change myself / he said / in the dream only a week before his mother called / no hello only / her breath a windmill crashing slowly into my head / this face already changed since heavy rain left november too bloody / to read in a boy finds a bridge and becomes / everywhere and i decide against / tuesday / vandross on the stereo muted tv / the room pink / with images of a bloody dictator / my face the shade of strawberry icing / as i sit through one war / another hold / the page closer to the glass dammit / imagine yourself in / real life / there should be tears / there should be / a reason but all i have / is the voice: 17 children are gunned down in afghanistan today / and i think: shouldn’t it be gunned up? / doesn’t the bullet / in a child / become an angel-seed / the beginning / of “heaven” / how dare you / i mutter to myself / and the face / is only a little “prettier” than yesterday / which is enough / so i step into the n train doors opening / the linebreak i finished / schuyler’s book / his grip still warm on my shoulder / words all blurry / the last time / someone borrowed him was may 13 1981 / which makes me sadder / than mondays in the library / reading all the heroes who killed themselves / trying to save / my life / but the pills were like / “the teeth of an angel” i said / into the mirror / said i’d make it / to 34th st. but now i’m not sure / what i smoked is
working / i take long hits / cause i don’t have healthcare / a line here / and there keeps my hands from shaking / barely made it to brooklyn college / without palms wet again / clutching the seats i’m sick / and sorry / for the scar on your face even / at night the day brighter / as a memory / the young poet with a mustache / sitting in the dusty classroom says / don’t worry you have an edge / your friend died plus / you’re asian and i want / to take his hand and lie down in the room / lit only with broken glass / a coffee table axed to pieces / the statue of a plastic buddha / decapitated / and there no more prayers / at the prow of you / instead / i said have you ever been fucked in the ass? . . . no / no i don’t mean figuratively / you see / all this trouble / just to make some sense / just to make a ghost appear / on paper / so you can see me in this mirror and maybe it’s 8pm there / after all / this face already gone / maybe this is just to say / that i found the gun / and changed / the world instead / and now it’s just you and me / dear reader / meeting each other for / the first time in a room dark / as the insides of / our skulls / and look i’m sorry i’m reflecting / the two gashes in your face / i would stitch them up / but you’ll never see again
from Freeman’s
DAVID WOJAHN
* * *
Still Life: Stevens’s Wallet on a Key West Hotel Dresser
Its alligator skin, now pliant from the years
of summoning & concealing, of the jaw
snapping open & shut, adding & subtracting
the large old-fangled twenties, immaculately crisp,
venereally green & a cache of Jeffersons
for setting down at the betting booth in Hialeah.
Chaste Diana’s greyhounds: how agilely
they bolt & quicken, rounding the palm-lined
backstretch as their metal rabbit quarry
taunts them ever faster. Sometimes a payoff,
sometimes not. Sometimes torts,
sometimes the palacios of Crispin or Hoon.
