Map (36 page)

Me—a teenager?

If she suddenly stood, here, now, before me,

would I need to treat her as near and dear,

although she's strange to me, and distant?

 

Shed a tear, kiss her brow

for the simple reason

that we share a birth date?

 

So many dissimilarities between us

that only the bones are likely still the same,

the cranial vault, the eye sockets.

 

Since her eyes seem a little larger,

her eyelashes are longer, she's taller,

and the whole body is tightly sheathed

in smooth, unblemished skin.

 

Relatives and friends still link us, it is true,

but in her world nearly all are living,

while in mine almost no one survives

from that shared circle.

 

We differ so profoundly,

talk and think about completely different things.

She knows next to nothing—

but with a doggedness deserving better causes.

I know much more—

but not for sure.

 

She shows me poems,

written in a clear and careful script

I haven't used for years.

 

I read the poems, read them.

Well, maybe that one

if it were shorter

and touched up in a couple of places.

The rest do not bode well.

 

The conversation stumbles.

On her pathetic watch

time is still cheap and unsteady.

On mine it's far more precious and precise.

 

Nothing in parting, a fixed smile

and no emotion.

 

Only when she vanishes,

leaving her scarf in her haste.

 

A scarf of genuine wool,

in colored stripes

crocheted for her

by our mother.

 

I've still got it.

 

 

I'm a poor audience for my memory.

She wants me to attend her voice nonstop,

but I fidget, fuss,

listen and don't,

step out, come back, then leave again.

 

She wants all my time and attention.

She's got no problem when I sleep.

The day's a different matter, which upsets her.

 

She thrusts old letters, snapshots at me eagerly,

stirs up events both important and un-,

turns my eyes to overlooked views,

peoples them with my dead.

 

In her stories I'm always younger.

Which is nice, but why always the same story.

Every mirror holds different news for me.

 

She gets angry when I shrug my shoulders.

And takes revenge by hauling out old errors,

weighty, but easily forgotten.

Looks into my eyes, checks my reaction.

Then comforts me, it could be worse.

 

She wants me to live only for her and with her.

Ideally in a dark, locked room,

but my plans still feature today's sun,

clouds in progress, ongoing roads.

 

At times I get fed up with her.

I suggest a separation. From now to eternity.

Then she smiles at me with pity,

since she knows it would be the end of me too.

 

 

When they first started looking through microscopes

a cold fear blew and it is still blowing.

Life hitherto had been frantic enough

in all its shapes and dimensions.

Which is why it created small-scale creatures,

assorted tiny worms and flies,

but at least the naked human eye

could see them.

 

But then suddenly beneath the glass,

foreign to a fault

and so petite,

that what they occupy in space

can only charitably be called a spot.

 

The glass doesn't even touch them,

they double and triple unobstructed,

with room to spare, willy-nilly.

 

To say they're many isn't saying much.

The stronger the microscope

the more exactly, avidly they're multiplied.

 

They don't even have decent innards.

They don't know gender, childhood, age.

They may not even know they are—or aren't.

Still they decide our life and death.

 

Some freeze in momentary stasis,

although we don't know what their moment is.

Since they're so minuscule themselves,

their duration may be

pulverized accordingly.

 

A wind-borne speck of dust is a meteor

from deepest space,

a fingerprint is a far-flung labyrinth,

where they may gather

for their mute parades,

their blind iliads and upanishads.

 

I've wanted to write about them for a long while,

but it's a tricky subject,

always put off for later

and perhaps worthy of a better poet,

even more stunned by the world than I.

But time is short. I write.

 

 

Why not, let's take the Foraminifera.

They lived, since they were, and were, since they lived.

They did what they could since they were able.

In the plural since the plural,

although each one on its own,

in its own, since in its own

small limestone shell.

Time summarized them later

in layers, since layers,

without going into details,

since there's pity in the details.

And so I have before me

two views in one:

a mournful cemetery made

of tiny eternal rests

or,

rising from the sea,

the azure sea, dazzling white cliffs,

cliffs that are here because they are.

 

 

They call it: space.

It's easy to define with that one word,

much harder with many.

 

Empty and full of everything at once?

Shut tight in spite of being open,

since nothing

can escape from it?

Inflated beyond all limits?

And if it has a limit,

what the devil does it border on?

 

Well, all fine and good. But go to sleep now.

It's night, tomorrow you've got more pressing matters

made to measure for you:

touching objects placed close at hand,

casting glances at the intended distance.

Listening to voices within earshot.

 

Then that journey from point A to point B.

Departure at 12:40 local time,

and flight above the puffs of local clouds

through whichever infinitely

fleeting strip of sky.

 

 

For the kids the first ending of the world.

For the cat a new master.

For the dog a new mistress.

For the furniture stairs, thuds, my way or the highway.

For the walls bright squares where pictures once hung.

For the neighbors new subjects, a break in the boredom.

For the car better if there were two.

For the novels, the poems—fine, take what you want.

Worse with encyclopedias and VCRs,

not to mention the guide to proper usage,

which doubtless holds pointers on two names—

are they still linked with the conjunction “and”

or does a period divide them.

 

 

They think for days on end,

how to kill so as to kill,

and how many killed will be many.

Apart from this they eat their meals with gusto,

pray, wash their feet, feed the birds,

make phone calls while scratching their armpits,

stanch blood when they cut a finger,

if they're women they buy sanitary napkins,

eye shadow, flowers for vases,

they make jokes on their good days,

drink citrus juice from the fridge,

watch the moon and stars at night,

place headphones with soft music on their ears

and sleep sweetly till the crack of dawn

—unless what they're thinking needs doing at night.

 

 

A gale

stripped all the leaves from the trees last night

except for one leaf

left

to sway solo on a naked branch.

 

With this example

Violence demonstrates

that yes of course—

it likes its little joke from time to time.

 

 

It's good you came—she says.

You heard a plane crashed on Thursday?

Well, so they came to see me

about it.

The story is he was on the passenger list.

So what, he might have changed his mind.

They gave me some pills so I wouldn't fall apart.

Then they showed me I don't know who.

All black, burned except one hand.

A scrap of shirt, a watch, a wedding ring.

I got furious, that can't be him.

He wouldn't do that to me, look like that.