in the middle of the day. But next to this man,
asleep on the broad sidewalk, is a bear
with its head on its paws. The bear’s
eyes are closed, but not all the way. As if
it were there, and not there. Everyone
is giving the bear a wide berth.
But a crowd is gathering, too, bulging
out onto the Avenue. The man has
a chain around his waist. The chain
goes from his lap to the bear’s collar,
a band of steel. On the table
in front of the man rests an iron bar
with a leather handle. And as if this
were not enough, the man drains the last
of his beer and picks up his bar.
Gets up from the table and hauls
on the chain. The bear stirs, opens its
mouth—old brown and yellow fangs.
But fangs. The man jerks on the chain,
hard. The bear rises to all fours now
and growls. The man slaps the bear on
its shoulder with the bar, bringing
a tiny cloud of dust. Growls something
himself. The bear waits while the man takes
another swing. Slowly, the bear rises
onto its hind legs, swings at air and at
that goddamned bar. Begins to shuffle
then, begins to snap its jaws as the man
slugs it again, and, yes, again
with that bar. There’s a tamborine.
I nearly forgot that. The man shakes
it as he chants, as he strikes the bear
who weaves on its hind legs. Growls
and snaps and weaves in a poor dance.
This scene lasts forever. Whole seasons
come and go before it’s over and the bear
drops to all fours. Sits down on its
haunches, gives a low, sad growl.
The man puts the tamborine on the table.
Puts the iron bar on the table, too.
Then he takes off his hat. No one
applauds. A few people see
what’s coming and walk away. But not
before the hat appears at the edge
of the crowd and begins to make its
way from hand to hand
through the throng. The hat
comes to me and stops. I’m holding
the hat, and I can’t believe it.
Everybody staring at it.
I stare right along with them.
You say my name, and in the same breath
hiss, “For God’s sake, pass it along.”
I toss in the money I have. Then
we leave and go on to the next thing.
Hours later, in bed, I touch you
and wait, and then touch you again.
Whereupon, you uncurl your fingers.
I put my hands all over you then —
your limbs, your long hair even, hair
that I touch and cover my face with,
and draw salt from. But later,
when I close my eyes, the hat
appears. Then the tamborine. The chain.
Late Night with Fog and Horses
They were in the living room. Saying their
goodbyes. Loss ringing in their ears.
They’d been through a lot together, but now
they couldn’t go another step. Besides, for him
there was someone else. Tears were falling
when a horse stepped out of the fog
into the front yard. Then another, and
another. She went outside and said,
“Where did you come from, you sweet horses?”
and moved in amongst them, weeping,
touching their flanks. The horses began
to graze in the front yard.
He made two calls: one call went straight
to the sheriff— “someone’s horses are out.”
But there was that other call, too.
Then he joined his wife in the front
yard, where they talked and murmured
to the horses together. (Whatever was
happening now was happening in another time.)
Horses cropped the grass in the yard
that night. A red emergency light
flashed as a sedan crept in out of fog.
Voices carried out of the fog.
At the end of that long night,
when they finally put their arms around
each other, their embrace was full of
passion and memory. Each recalled
the other’s youth. Now something had ended,
something else rushing in to take its place.
Came the moment of leave-taking itself.
“Goodbye, go on,” she said.
And the pulling away.
Much later,
he remembered making a disastrous phone call.
One that had hung on and hung on,
a malediction. It’s boiled down
to that. The rest of his life.
Malediction.
Venice
The gondolier handed you a rose.
Took us up one canal
and then another. We glided
past Casanova’s palace, the palace of
the Rossi family, palaces belonging
to the Baglioni, the Pisani, and Sangallo.
Flooded. Stinking. What’s left
left to rats. Blackness.
The silence total, or nearly.
The man’s breath coming and going
behind my ear. The drip of the oar.
We gliding silently on, and on.
Who would blame me if I fall
to thinking about death?
A shutter opened above our heads.
A little light showed through
before the shutter was closed once
more. There is that, and the rose
in your hand. And history.
The Eve of Battle
There are five of us in the tent, not counting
the batman cleaning my rifle. There’s
a lively argument going on amongst my brother
officers. In the cookpot, salt pork turns
alongside some macaroni. But these fine fellows
aren’t hungry—and it’s a good thing!
All they want is to harrumph about the likes
of Huss and Hegel, anything to pass the time.
Who cares? Tomorrow we fight. Tonight they want
to sit around and chatter about nothing, about
philosophy. Maybe the cookpot isn’t there
for them? Nor the stove, or those folding
stools they’re sitting on. Maybe there isn’t
a battle waiting for them tomorrow morning?
We’d all like that best. Maybe
I’m not there for them, either. Ready
to dish up something to eat. Un est autre,
as someone said. I, or another, may as well be
in China. Time to eat, brothers,
I say, handing round the plates. But someone
has just ridden up and dismounted. My batman
moves to the door of the tent, then drops his plate
and steps back. Death walks in without saying
anything, dressed in coat-and-tails.
At first I think he must be looking for the Emperor,
who’s old and ailing anyway. That would explain
it. Death’s lost his way. What else could it be?
He has a slip of paper in his hand, looks us over
quickly, consults some names.
He raises his eyes. I turn to the stove.
When I turn back, everyone has gone. Everyone
except Death. He’s still there, unmoving.
I give him his plate. He’s come a long
way. He is hungry, I think, and will eat anything.
Extirpation
A little q
uietly outstanding uptown
piano music played in the background
as we sat at the bar in the lounge.
Discussing the fate of the last caribou herd in the US.
Thirty animals who roam a small corner
of the Idaho Panhandle. Thirty animals
just north of Bonner’s Ferry,
this guy said. Then called for another round.
But I had to go. We never saw each other again.
Never spoke another word to each other,
or did anything worth getting excited about
the rest of our lives.
The Catch
Happy to have these fish!
In spite of the rain, they came
to the surface and took
the No. 14 Black Mosquito.
He had to concentrate,
close everything else out
for a change. His old life,
which he carried around
like a pack. And the new one,
that one too. Time and again
he made what he felt were the most
intimate of human movements.
Strained his heart to see
the difference between a raindrop
and a brook trout. Later,
walking across the wet field
to the car. Watching
the wind change the aspen trees.
He abandoned everyone
he once loved.
My Death
If I’m lucky, I’ll be wired every whichway
in a hospital bed. Tubes running into
my nose. But try not to be scared of me, friends!
I’m telling you right now that this is okay.
It’s little enough to ask for at the end.
Someone, I hope, will have phoned everyone
to say, “Come quick, he’s failing!”
And they will come. And there will be time for me
to bid goodbye to each of my loved ones.
If I’m lucky, they’ll step forward
and I’ll be able to see them one last time
and take that memory with me.
Sure, they might lay eyes on me and want to run away
and howl. But instead, since they love me,
they’ll lift my hand and say “Courage”
or “It’s going to be all right.”
And they’re right. It is all right.
It’s just fine. If you only knew how happy you’ve made me!
I just hope my luck holds, and I can make
some sign of recognition.
Open and close my eyes as if to say,
“Yes, I hear you. I understand you.”
I may even manage something like this:
“I love you too. Be happy.”
I hope so! But I don’t want to ask for too much.
If I’m unlucky, as I deserve, well, I’ll just
drop over, like that, without any chance
for farewell, or to press anyone’s hand.
Or say how much I cared for you and enjoyed
your company all these years. In any case,
try not to mourn for me too much. I want you to know
I was happy when I was here.
And remember I told you this a while ago—April 1984.
But be glad for me if I can die in the presence
of friends and family. If this happens, believe me,
I came out ahead. I didn’t lose this one.
To Begin With
He took a room in a port city with a fellow
called Sulieman A. Sulieman and his wife,
an American known only as Bonnie. One thing
he remembered about his stay there
was how every evening Sulieman rapped
at his own front door before entering.
Saying, “Right, hello. Sulieman here.”
After that, Sulieman taking off his shoes.
Putting pita bread and hummus into his mouth
in the company of his silent wife.
Sometimes there was a piece of chicken
followed by cucumbers and tomatoes.
Then they all watched what passed for TV
in that country. Bonnie sitting in a chair
to herself, raving against the Jews.
At eleven o’clock she would say, “We have to sleep now.”
But once they left their bedroom door open.
And he saw Sulieman make his bed on the floor
beside the big bed where Bonnie lay
and looked down at her husband.
They said something to each other in a foreign language.
Sulieman arranged his shoes by his head.
Bonnie turned off the light, and they slept.
But the man in the room at the back of the house
couldn’t sleep at all. It was as if
he didn’t believe in sleep any longer.
Sleep had been all right, once, in its time.
But it was different now.
Lying there at night, eyes open, arms at his sides,
his thoughts went out to his wife,
and his children, and everything that bore
on that leave-taking. Even the shoes
he’d been wearing when he left his house
and walked out. They were the real betrayers,
he decided. They’d brought him all this way
without once trying to do anything to stop him.
Finally, his thoughts came back to this room
and this house. Where they belonged.
Where he knew he was home.
Where a man slept on the floor of his own bedroom.
A man who knocked at the door of his own house,
announcing his meager arrival. Sulieman.
Who entered his house only after knocking
and then to eat pita bread and tomatoes
with his bitter wife. But in the course of those long nights
he began to envy Sulieman a little.
Not much, but a little. And so what if he did!
But Sulieman sleeping in the same room,
at least, as his wife.
Maybe it was all right if she snored
and had blind prejudices. She wasn’t so bad-
looking, that much was true, and if
Sulieman woke up he could at least
hear her from his place. Know she was there.
There might even be nights when he could reach
over and touch her through the blanket
without waking her. Bonnie. His wife.
Maybe in this life it was necessary to learn
to pretend to be a dog and sleep on the floor
in order to get along. Sometimes
this might be necessary. Who knows
anything these days?
At least it was a new idea and something,
he thought, he might have to try and understand.
Outside, the moon reached over the water
and disappeared finally. Footsteps
moved slowly down the street and came to a stop
outside his window. The streetlight
went out, and the steps passed on.
The house became still and, in one way at least,
like all the other houses—totally dark.
He held onto his blanket and stared at the ceiling.
He had to start over. To begin with –
the oily smell of the sea, the rotting tomatoes.
The Cranes
Cranes lifting up out of the marshland…
My brother brings his fingers to his temples
and then drops his hands.
Like that, he was dead.
The satin lining of autumn.
O my brother! I miss you now, and I’d like to have you back.
Hug you like a grown man
who knows the worth of things.
The mist of events drifts away.
Not in this life, I told you once.
I was given a different set of marching orders.
I planned to go mule-backing across the Isthmus.
Begone, though, if this is your idea of things!
But I’ll think of you out there
when I look at those stars we saw as children.
The cranes wallop their wings.
In a moment, they’ll find true north.
Then turn in the opposite direction.
VII
A Haircut
So many impossible things have already
happened in this life. He doesn’t think
twice when she tells him to get ready:
He’s about to get a haircut.
He sits in the chair in the upstairs room,
the room they sometimes joke and refer to
as the library. There’s a window there
that gives light. Snow’s coming
down outside as newspapers go down
around his feet. She drapes a big
towel over his shoulders. Then
gets out her scissors, comb, and brush.
This is the first time they’ve been
alone together in a while—with nobody
going anywhere, or needing to do
anything. Not counting the going
to bed with each other. That intimacy.
Or breakfasting together. Another
intimacy. They both grow quiet
and thoughtful as she cuts his hair,
and combs it, and cuts some more.
The snow keeps falling outside.
Soon, light begins to pull away from
the window. He stares down, lost and
musing, trying to read
something from the paper. She says,
“Raise your head.” And he does.
And then she says, “See what you think
of it.” He goes to look
in the mirror, and it’s fine.
It’s just the way he likes it,
and he tells her so.
It’s later, when he turns on the
porchlight, and shakes out the towel
and sees the curls and swaths of
white and dark hair fly out onto
the snow and stay there,
that he understands something: He’s
grownup now, a real, grownup,
middle-aged man. When he was a boy,
going with his dad to the barbershop,