fennel grew high and green
in early summer, and the air
smelled like little anise-scented loaves
in the Italian restaurants her father
used to take them to on Sunday nights.
She had to sit up straight:
it was the idea of family
they failed at. She lights a cigarette,
remembering the taut veins
in her mother’s neck, how she had studied them,
repelled. He has begun to drowse:
backyards, her voice, dusty fennel,
the festering sweetness of the plums.
Monday Morning, Late Summer
on the fence
in the sunlight,
beach towels.
No wind.
The apricots have ripened
and been picked.
The blackberries have ripened
and been picked.
So
They walked along the dry gully.
Cottonwoods, so the river must be underground.
Plus Which
She turned to him. or, alternatively,
she turned away. Doves let loose
above the sea, or the sea at night
beating on the pylons of a bridge.
off-season: the candles were Mediterranean,
opaque, and the cat cried olor,
olor, olor in the blue susurrations
of heather by the outhouse door.
SANTA BARBARA ROAD
Mornings on the south side of the house
just outside the kitchen door
arrived early in summer—
when Luke was four or five
he would go out there, still in his dandelion-
yellow pajamas on May mornings
and lie down on the first warm stone.
For years, when the green nubs of apricots
first sprouted on the backyard tree,
I thought about a bench in that spot,
a redwood screen behind green brushstrokes
of bamboo, and one April, walking into the kitchen,
I felt like a stranger to my life
and it scared me, so when the gray doves returned
to the telephone wires
and the lemons were yellowing
and no other task presented itself,
I finally went into the garden and started
digging, trying to marry myself
and my hands to that place.
Household verses: “Who are you?”
the rubber duck in my hand asked Kristin
once, while she was bathing, three years old.
“Kristin,” she said, laughing, her delicious
name, delicious self. “That’s just your name,”
the duck said. “Who are you?” “Kristin,”
she said. “Kristin’s a name. Who are you?”
the duck asked. She said, shrugging,
“Mommy, Daddy, Leif.”
The valley behind the hills heats up,
vultures, red-tailed hawks floating in the bubbles
of warm air that pull the fog right in
from the ocean. You have to rise at sunup
to see it steaming through the Gate
in ghostly June. Later, on street corners,
you can hardly see the children, chirping
and shivering, each shrill voice climbing over
the next in an ascending chorus. “Wait, you guys,”
one little girl says, trying to be heard.
“Wait, wait, wait, wait, wait.”
Bright clothes: the last buses of the term.
Richard arrives to read poems, the final guest
of a long spring. I thought of Little Shelford,
where we had seen him last. In the worked gold
of an English October, Kristin watched the neighbor’s
horses wading in the meadow grass, while Leif
and I spiraled a football by the chalk-green,
moss-mortared ruin of the garden wall.
Mr. Acker, who had worked in the village
since he was a boy, touched his tweed cap
mournfully. “Reminds me of the war,” he said.
to Luke, who had an old alphabet book
in which cherubic animals disported.
Richard was a rabbit with a roller.
Luke evidently thought that it was droll
or magical that Richard, commanded
by the power of the word, was crouching
under the horse chestnut, dangling
a hand-rolled cigarette and rolling him a ball.
He gave me secret, signifying winks, though
he could not quite close one eye at a time.
So many prisms to construct a moment!
Spiderwebs set at all angles on a hedge:
what Luke thought was going on, what Mr. Acker
saw, and Richard, who had recently divorced,
idly rolling a ball with someone else ’s child,
healing slowly, as the neighbor’s silky mare
who had had a hard birth in the early spring,
stood quiet in the field as May grew sweet,
her torn vagina healing. So many visions
intersecting at what we call the crystal
of a common world, all the growing and shearing,
all the violent breaks. on Richard’s last night
in Berkeley, we drank late and drove home
through the city gardens in the hills. Light
glimmered on the bay. Night-blooming jasmine
gave a heavy fragrance to the air. Richard
studied the moonlit azaleas in silence.
I knew he had a flat in East London.
I wondered if he was envying my life.
“How did you ever get stuck in this nest
of gentlefolk?” he said. “Christ! It’s lovely.
I shouldn’t want to live in America.
I’d miss the despair of European men.”
Luke comes running into the house excited
to say that an Iceland poppy has “bloomed up.”
His parents, who are not getting along
especially well, exchange wry looks.
They had both forgotten, since small children
were supposed to love flowers, that they actually
do. And there is the pathos of the metaphor
or myth: irresistible flowering.
Everything rises from the dead in June.
There is some treasure hidden in the heart of summer
everyone remembers now, and they can’t be sure
the lives they live in will discover it.
They remember the smells of childhood vacations.
The men buy maps, raffish hats. Some women
pray to it by wearing blouses
with small buttons you have to button patiently,
as if to say, this is not winter, not
the cold shudder of dressing in the dark.
Howard, one child on his shoulder,
another trotting beside him, small hand
in his hand, is going to write a book—
“Miranda, stop pulling Daddy’s hair”—about
the invention of the family in medieval France.
The ritual hikes of Memorial Day: adults
chatting in constantly re-forming groups,
men with men, women with women, couples,
children cozened along with orange sections
and with raisins, running ahead, and back,
and interrupting. Long views through mist
of the scaly brightness of the ocean,
the massive palisade of Point Reyes cliffs.
“I would have thought,” a woman friend says,
peeling a tangerine for Howard whose hands
are otherwise employed, cautioning a child
to spit out all the
seeds, “that biology
invented the family.” A sudden upward turn
of the trail, islands just on the horizon,
blue. “Well,” he says, “I think it’s useful
to see it as a set of conventions.”
Someone’s great-aunt dies. Someone’s sister’s
getting married in a week. The details are comic.
But we dress, play flutes, twine flowers,
and read long swatches from the Song of Songs
to celebrate some subtle alteration
in a cohabitation that has, probably, reached a crisis
and solved it with the old idea of these vows.
To vow, and tear down time: one of the lovers gives up
an apartment, returned to and stripped piecemeal
over months or years, until one maidenhair fern
left by the kitchen window as a symbol, dwindling,
of the resilience of a solitary life
required watering. Now it too is moved.
Summer solstice: parents, if their children
are young enough, put them to bed before dark,
then sit to watch the sun set on the bay.
A woman brings her coffee to the view.
Dinner done. What was she thinking
before her mother called, before the neighbor
called about the car pool? Something,
something interesting. The fog flares
and smolders, salmon first, then rose,
and in the twilight the sound comes up
across the neighborhood backyards of a table
being set. other lives with other schedules.
Then dark, and, veering eerily, a bat.
Body half-emerged from the bright blue cocoon
of the sleeping bag, he wakes, curled hand
curling toward the waves of his sister’s
cut-short, slept-on and matted, cornfield-
colored hair. She stirs a little in her sleep.
Her mother, whose curved brow her brow exactly
echoes, stirs. What if the gnostics had it backward?
What if eternity is pure destruction? The child,
rubbing his eyes, stares drowsily at the sea,
squints at his father who is sitting up,
shivers from his bag, plods up the beach
to pee against the cliff, runs back, climbs in
with his mother, wriggles close. In a minute
he’ll be up again, fetching driftwood for a fire.
Leif comes home from the last day of his sophomore year.
I am sitting on the stoop by our half-dug,
still-imagined kitchen porch, reading
Han dynasty rhyme-prose. He puts a hand on my shoulder,
grown to exactly my height and still growing.
“Dad,” he says, “I’m not taking any more
of this tyrannical bullshit.” I read to him
from Chia Ya: The great man is without bent,
a million changes are as one to him.
He says, “And another thing, don’t lay
your Buddhist trips on me.” The span of life is fated;
man cannot guess its ending.
In stillness like the stillness of deep springs…
In the kitchen he flips the lid
of the blueberry yogurt. I am thinking
this project is more work than I want.
Joining, scattering, ebbing and flowing,
where is there persistence, where is there rule?
“Bullshit,” he mutters, “what is the existential reality”—
he has just read Nausea in advanced English—
“of all this bullshit, Todo?”
Todo is the dog. It occurs to me
that I am not a very satisfying parent
to rebel against. Like an unmoored boat
drifting aimlessly, not even valuing
the breath of life, the wise man
embraces nothing, and drifts with it .
I look at his long body in a chair
and wonder if I’d tell him to embrace the void.
I think he will embrace a lover soon.
I want the stars to terrify him once. I want him
to weep bitterly when his grandfather dies,
hating the floral carpet, hating it that his old aunts
have become expert at this event.
I would ward off, if I could, the thicket
of grief on grief in which Chia Ya
came to entire relinquishment as to a clearing.
Digging again, I say, “You know, I started this job
and I hate it already, and now I have to finish.”
He leans against the doorpost with a spoon.
Takes a mouthful. “Well, Pop,” he says, “that’s life.”
Children stroll down to the lakeside
on a path already hot from the morning sun
and known well by them in its three turnings—
one by the sugar pine gouged with rusty nails
where summers past they put a hammock or a swing,
one by the thimbleberry where the walk seems driest,
dust heaviest on the broad soft leaves, and bees—
you have to be careful—are nuzzling in the flowers,
one by the aspens where the smell of water
starts and the path opens onto sand, the wide blue lake,
mountains on the farther shore. The smaller boy
has line, a can for crawfish, and an inner tube.
He’s nursing a summer cold. His older brother’s
carrying a book, a towel, a paper on Medea
his girlfriend has mailed to him from summer school.
The girl has several books, some magazines.
She loves her family, but she ’s bored. She ’d rather
be in town where her friends are, where her real life
has begun. They settle on the beach.
Cold water, hot sun, the whole of an afternoon.
BERKELEY ECLOGUE
1.
Sunlight on the streets in afternoon
and shadows on the faces in the open-air cafés.
What for? Wrong question. You knock
without knowing that you knocked. The door
opens on a century of clouds and centuries
of centuries of clouds. The bird sings
among the toyons in the spring’s diligence
of rain. And then what? Hand on your heart.
Would you die for spring? What would you die for?
Anything?
Anything. It may be I can’t find it
and they can, the spooners of whipped cream
and espresso at the sunny tables, the women
with their children in the stores. You want to sing?
Tra-la. Empty and he wants to sing.
A pretty river, but there were no fish.
Smart fish. They will be feeding for a while.
He wants to sing. Yes, poverty or death.
Piety or death, you meant, you dope. You fool,
“bloody little fool.” She slammed the door.
He was, of course, forlorn. And lorn and afterlorn.
It made a busy afternoon. The nights were difficult.
No doors, no drama. The moon ached aimlessly.
Dogs in the morning had their dog masks on.
It did not seem good, the moths, the apples?
The gold meander in her long brown hair
cast one vote then, sinuous as wrists. He attended
to her earnestness as well—and the child liked breakfast.
He believed in that. Every day was a present
he pretended that he brought. The sun came up.
Nothing to it. I’ll do it again tomorrow,
and it did. Sundays he fetched croissants,
the frank nipples of brioche that say it’s day,
eat up, the phone will ring, the mail arrive.
Someone who
heard you sing the moths, the apples
and they were—for sure they were, and good
though over there. Gold hair. A lucky guy
with a head on his shoulders, and all heart.
You can skip this part. The moths, the apples,
and the morning news. Apartheid, terror,
boys in a jungle swagging guns. Injustice
in tropical climates is appalling,
and it does do you credit to think so.
I knew that I had my own work to do.
The ones who wear the boots decide all that.
He wants to sing one thing so true that it is true.
I cast a vote across the river, skipped another
on the pond. It skittered for a while triumphantly,
then sank. And we were naked on the riverbank.
I believed a little in her breasts, the color
of the aureoles that afternoon, and something
she said about her sister that seemed shrewd.
Afterward we watched a woman making masks,
mostly with feathers and a plaster cast of face
she glued them to. The mouths formed cries.
They were the parts that weren’t there—implied
by what surrounded them. They were a cunning
emptiness. I think you ought to start again.
The fish were smart. They mouthed the salmon eggs,
or so you felt. The boys kept reeling in.
Casting and reeling in. You’ll never catch a fish
that way, you said. one caught a fish that way.
one perched in a chair abandoned on the sand.
Drank orange soda, watched his rod twitter
in the fork of a willow twig. “I’m getting a bite, Dad.”
It was the river current or the wind. In every
language in the world, I bet. Do you believe
in that? Not especially. It means the race is old.
And full of hope? He wants to sing.
You bastard, she said, and slammed the door.
You’ve been in this part already. Say “before.”
“Before.” She shut the door. It couldn’t have been
otherwise. How sick you were. The mouths, the apples,
the buttons on a blouse. The bone was like pearl,
and small, and very shiny. The fat child’s face
was flecked with Santa Rosa plum. She cried.
Her mother hit her. Then it seemed like blood.
A flood of tears, then. You remembered
never to interfere. It humiliates them.
They beat the child again when they get home.