| “Dead
flies will cause even a bottle |
| of
perfume to stink”. |
| -
Ecc. 10:1 |
| |
| “I
made a model of you… |
| And
a love of the rack and the |
| screw |
| And
I said I do, I do…” |
| -
Sylvia Plath, “Daddy” |
| |
| |
| Billy,
Billy, these pairs of shoes |
will
not do
|
| you
will not do |
| anymore |
| black
shoes. |
| You
buy me tight, black shoes |
| and
leather laces, |
| but
I cannot wear them. |
| You
do not buy me any socks. |
| |
| And,
of course, the Greeks, |
| you
begin to say, |
“ You
like those Greeks…I |
have
not forgotten.” |
| |
| It’s
too simple to reply. |
| |
| ‘I
know the Greeks went without |
| socks.’ |
| |
| And
then |
| you
come up with |
| a
lady’s game |
| since
I’m so fragile, |
| |
| I
comply. |
| |
| ‘Let’s
play this lady’s game,’ I say. |
| |
“I
knew you would, though.” |
| |
| At
Etna, there you put me, |
| I
was almost falling; I’m |
| acrophobic. |
| But
why worry over these |
| specifics. |
I’m
already qualified
|
to
play
|
| |
by
being with you,
|
| the
length I had been, |
| who
else could stand these rules? |
| |
| I
leaned forward. |
| |
“Say:
Etna, Etna, thee I love.”
|
| |
| ‘Etna,
Etna, |
thee
I loathe.’
|
“Love,
love.” |
| ‘Love.
love.’ |
| We’re
far too high; I see Tibet. |
| |
“Say,
I love Etna for her sublime beauty.” |
| |
| You
speak this Catullus ode to Wordsworth: |
Ad
claras Asiae volemus urbes.
|
But
black shoes,
|
it
is beautiful versus
|
sublime.
|
| |
| ‘I
love Etna because she is sublime.
I would not count her |
| beautiful.’ |
| |
“That
isn’t what I said. Balance on your
heels.” |
| |
| ‘I
love Etna for her sublime |
| beauty.’ |
| |
“I
love Billy. |
I
love Billy. Say it. …I love Billy.” |
| |
| ‘I
love Billy! There. I said it. I |
| would
like to leave now.’ |
| |
“But,
I haven’t experienced your terror.
You |
haven’t
convinced me
|
| |
Etna
is sublime.”
|
| |
| ‘I
have terror.’ |
| |
“Prove
it.” |
| |
| Black
shoe, black shoe, |
| you
treat me as a heel. |
| I’ve
been restricted by design |
| when
I dreamed to be a foot, |
| and
for the soul that keeps me. |
I
am not a heel; you
|
| mythologize
the smallest unit |
| and
I keep trying to suggest |
| that
some of history is still fiction. |
| |
| ‘I
have Jewish grandparents.’ |
| |
“Ah,
but isn’t Buddha universal?” |
| |
| You’ve
become quite obsessed with |
| this
word: |
| Buddha
Buddha Buddha |
| |
“Buddha
went barefoot… |
| |
| ‘I
love thee Etna. You’re sublime.’ |
| |
…He
never wore a shoe. He never used
a cup. |
He
scooped with his hands.
|
He
kept his fingers together,
|
and
scooped.”
|
| |
| ‘I
have no use with Buddha. |
He
never recognized my name.’
|
| |
| What
happened is the wind. |
| The
squall from the wing of a butterfly
at Pompeii, |
| Your
eyes were as dark as coughing crows, |
| I
saw them in Beijing. |
| |
“Buddha
is the wind.”
|
| Beijing,
of all places. |
| |
| ‘Oh.
He is the wind? |
Doesn’t
Buddha prefer exasperating?’
|
| |
“You,
at least, can feel his breath.” |
| |
| He
touches me on my shoulder. |
| |
“When
you speak to him, he’ll breathe
hardest |
then.” |
| |
| And,
when |
I
fell from Etna— |
| I
was busy with recitations of Billy’s dominating tongue. |
| Let’s
live love as holograms |
that
cannot
ever feel, |
| & flicker
sex as shadow puppets, |
as
if motion is the real. |
| |
| What
mess revolves in holograms? |
No
danger in importing death |
| to
us, or each; and not to love… |
We’re
either leaving, or we’ve left. |
| |
| I
dream of us, we empty hulls |
where
without your skin, I am
|
in
love,
|
knowing
that we cannot |
| hurt
the other hologram. |
| |
| To
say as every light thinks dim, |
the
shadow puppets, the static air |
| was
the mechanic lull of God – |
and
His absent stare. |
