After Rubén Read online

  touches her

  like this. This

  is a dream—well,

  not that exactly, but

  a message, spirit

  to spirit—this scene

  nothing she’s

  ever recalled

  in person

  II

  KEOUGH HALL

  November 9, 2016

  University of Notre Dame

  “deplorables

  knocking

  at your door”

  he shouted

  the day

  after—“build

  the wall—

  we’re

  building

  a wall

  around

  your room!”

  minutes

  felt

  like hours

  “cowards!”

  you managed,

  catching

  a glimpse

  by cracking

  your door:

  there were three

  of them

  scurrying

  down the hall,

  their faces

  obscured . . .

  your back

  against

  the wall, you slid

  to the floor—

  “Hail Mary . . .”

  you began

  whispering

  to yourself

  and back

  they came their

  laughter

  louder

  minutes

  felt

  like hours

  and the thumping

  in your chest—

  his fist

  pounding the door

  for Gregory Jenn (’18)

  THE INEVITABLE

  I envy that tree.

  It barely feels.

  Envy even more

  this stone

  that hasn’t felt

  for ages. Tell me

  of an affliction

  more acute

  than breathing,

  of something worse

  than knowing

  that we are, yet

  knowing nothing,

  unsure of which

  path to take.

  And what to make

  of this sense

  we’re on a wheel,

  uncanny hunch

  of bleaker things

  to come, the only truth

  one day we die?

  We endure this life,

  shadows, what we

  ignore and hardly

  suspect, skin that glows

  like a shimmering piece

  of fruit, visions

  of a wreath

  beside a tomb, all

  the while without

  a clue

  of where we began,

  where we go.

  after Rubén Darío’s “Lo fatal”

  TO GEORGE W. BUSH

  2006

  Should I quote the good

  book you claim to know;

  or perhaps our late bearded

  bard—might these be ways

  of reaching you? Primitive

  modern, simple complex—

  one part wily astute

  animal, three parts owner

  of a ranch: conglomeration

  is what you are, poised

  for another incursion.

  Lean, strong specimen

  of your breed, polite you

  hardly read when not

  in a saddle, or spreading manure.

  You see a building in flames

  as vital, progress a spewing

  volcano. And where you point

  and place your bullet

  you stake the future—yours

  and ours. And so:

  not so fast. O there’s

  no doubting the heft

  of this nation: it moves it

  shifts—a tremor travels

  down to the tip

  of the continent; you raise

  your voice and it’s

  bellowing we hear (The sky

  is mine), stars in the east

  sun in the west. People

  are clothes, their cars,

  Sunday attire at church,

  a harbor lady lighting

  the journey with a torch.

  But America, sir,

  is North, Central,

  and South—delicate

  wing of a beetle,

  thundering sheet

  of water (our cubs

  are crossing

  over). And though,

  O man of bluest eye

  you believe your truth,

  it is not—you are not

  the world

  after Rubén Darío’s “A Roosevelt”

  TENOCHTITLAN, 1523

  an erasaure of Andrés Montoya

  WIND & RAIN

  And that day years ago—no

  umbrella, the stroll

  lasting four hours, your socks

  soaked—doesn’t matter

  you thought: crossing, re-crossing

  the Thames on foot sheer

  pleasure, coming upon

  Leicester Square, that throng . . .

  —What happened?

  to a petite lady wearing glasses, but

  before she could speak

  a slick wall of coats

  slowly parts and there

  he was: plum-colored,

  rolling past on a stretcher . . .

  Moments later they cover his face.

  The rest of your walk

  a blur . . . —I think his heart

  gave, said a man wearing

  a tie, but those weren’t the ones

  that spoke to you, still do:

  poor chap, softly, her light-blue

  hair in your eyes . . . and his wife.

  I saw the ring. expecting him home

  for supper

  1985

  Long and black, the streaks

  of gray, aflutter in the light

  wind as she prepares to tell

  her story at the Federal Building:

  reaching into a tattered sack

  she pulls out a doll

  missing an eye, balding—

  singed face smudged with soot

  from the smoke her home took in

  as her village was being shelled.

  Next she retrieves what’s left

  of a book—a few pages

  the borders brown, coming

  apart in her hands: hesitant,

  she raises one, starts to read aloud:

  por la mañana sube el sol y calienta el día

  la tierra nos da dónde vivir y qué comer

  la vaca nos da leche para beber y hacer mantequilla

  It’s her daughter’s lesson

  the poem she read to her

  the day they struck—

  (in the morning the sun rises and warms the day

  the earth provides a place to live and what to eat

  the cow gives us milk to drink and churn butter with . . . )

  . . . mid-way through, her voice begins

  to shake—her words

  like refugees exposed to the night shiver,

  freeze: silence

  swallows us all . . .

  . . . her words, drifting

  casualities,

  gather and huddle

  in my throat.

  San Francisco

  POEM WITH A PHRASE OF ISHERWOOD

  2010, Arizona

  Cruelty is sensual and stirs you

  Governor, your name echoing the sludge

  beneath your cities’ streets. It spurs

  the pleasure you take

  whenever your mouth nears

  a mic, defending your law . . . your wall.

  Cruelty is sensual and stirs you

  Governor, we’ve noticed your face

  its contortions and delicate sneer

  times you’re asked to cut

  certain rib
bons—visit a dusty place

  you’d rather avoid, out of the heat.

  Cruelty is sensual and stirs you

  Governor, the vision of your state

  something you treasure in secret

  though we’ve caught a glimpse

  in the jowls of your sheriff:

  bulldog who doubles as your heart.

  BAY AREA RAPID TRANSIT

  Her hair: cropped short as a punk’s, same

  gray as these connected cars; her pullover’s blue

  snug, the few holes along her sleeves

  flesh-colored sores. She’s cursing the crooks

  at City Hall—then go back to where you are from

  he says, off in a huff at Powell. On her feet now

  she spots another facing the light-streaked black,

  crosses the aisle, sits beside him. The puffy skin

  beneath her eyes: pinkish—I hate this place, she says

  holding an envelope in his face—could you

  help me with this address they cut

  me off those boys what they did to that girl

  outside my room on the stairs . . . And the joints

  of her fingers: bulbs—I was you know

  a typist in New York . . . O, she says, what’ll I

  do do you know this address what should I

  tell them I swear sometimes

  if maybe I just—her voice dissolving,

  mingling with the long sharp whistle

  the sound of the rails as the convoy

  begins to brake and then the sliding

  doors and steps off the train

  DECEMBER 31, 1965

  The hoped-for words went out

  And so, as dusk settled over the embattled

  Not since the first winter of World War I

  The idea of a holiday from death

  As if in anticipation of the lull

  Throughout the world, hopes rose

  Pope Paul VI exhorted

  President Johnson steadfastly refused

  “They are outsiders, just as I am,” snapped Truman

  The foursome, accused of burning their cards

  The Army meanwhile made clear that dissent was for civilians

  Howe was sentenced to two years

  In the bitter Harlem riots of 1964, as in the Watts

  Last week, under a 1901 New York law

  Epton was no ordinary agitator

  Long before the riots, according to a Negro detective who infiltrated the group

  As he made the rounds of Jersey City’s sprawling Medical

  “If there is a toe in town I haven’t stepped on

  “City jobs around here were just plain patronage plums

  “A man doesn’t carry that much fat around and live

  Wrapped perennially in a white linen suit

  At one celebrated Boykinalia

  There was salmon from Quebec

  The voters’ love for Boykin ran out in the 1962

  He is now 80 and after all those lovin’ years has an ailing heart

  A year before he was arrested for the nightrider slaying

  Klansman Collie Leroy Wilkins was riding around with a sawed-off

  Judge Allgood last week sentenced Wilkins to a year and a day

  TIME Magazine

  THE MAN AND THE WOLF

  His heart the texture of a rose,

  his tongue a swath of sky,

  his manner delicate—now

  chatting with what many call

  a beast: the look in the eyes rabid,

  black: on the skirts of the village

  devoured sheep and shepherd alike.

  Men skilled with iron were routed.

  Fangs shredded hunting dogs

  like baby lamb. So out he went

  looking for his den, found him

  outside it, from where the animal

  lunged at the sight of him, then saw

  the hand rise, heard him say:

  “Peace be with you, brother wolf.”

  The mammal knew that gesture,

  snapped out of it and froze:

  “Oh, it’s you.” “Why,”

  asked the man, “must you lead

  this life? The blood your snout

  spills; the grief and terror

  you mete out; peasants sobbing,

  who are children of God . . .

  Does this please you? Are you

  from hell, or perhaps consumed

  by some eternal ire?” And the wolf,

  subdued, said: “Winter is hard

  “and hunger worse in a freezing

  forest that yields nothing to eat.

  It’s true: I looked for livestock

  “to feed on, and did, and ate

  shepherds too. As for blood,

  the hunter on his horse gripping

  “his metal pursuing boar, bear,

  and deer—sheds more. I’ve seen scores

  of them inflict wounds, torture

  “God’s creatures. And hunger

  is not what drives them to hunt.”

  To which the man responded: “Evil

  exists in humans. We are born

  with sin. But the simple soul of a beast

  is pure. From this day on you’ll have

  enough to eat. And you will leave

  the people of this land, and their flocks,

  alone. May God appease that side

  of you.” “Okay, it’s a deal.”

  “As a gesture of faith extend

  your paw—let’s shake on it.”

  The wolf did as asked and lifted

  his foot. The man wrapped his

  fingers around it, gently squeezed.

  They headed for the village. People

  could hardly believe their eyes: the wolf

  strode behind the man in the robe

  like a family dog, his head bowed.

  Every man, woman, and child

  came closer, until the whole village

  had gathered in the plaza where

  the man began to speak: “Let me

  introduce a new neighbor,” he said,

  pointing to the wolf with an open

  hand. “Fear him not. He is

  our enemy no more. In return,

  I’m going to ask that each of us

  do our part and feed him. He is,

  after all, a creature of God.”

  The village responded as one:

  “So be it!” The wolf raised

  his head in acknowledgement,

  moving his tail from side to side,

  disappeared through the gates

  of a convent, the man ahead of him.

  For a time the wolf was at peace

  in that place. His ears would fill

  with psalms—his eyes with tears.

  He learned how to move with grace,

  to play pranks in the kitchen.

  When the man whispered his prayers,

  the wolf would pass his tongue across

  his sandals. Out into the street

  he’d go, through the valley, over hills,

  into homes, where people gave him things

  to eat. To them he seemed a docile hound.

  And then the man had to leave

  for a time. The sweet wolf, the good

  and gentle wolf vanished and went

  back into the hills. The howling began

  again. Once more people were filled

  with fear, villages nearby with dread.

  Weapons and valor were useless, the rage

  never letting up, as if something

  burned, smoldered inside the beast.

  The day the man returned, villagers

  sought him out, wept their complaints

  about the suffering inflicted—that

  infamous creature was at it again.

  A shadow passed over the man’s face.

  He headed for the hills to track

  him down—that but
cher of a wolf.

  He found him at his cave. “In the name

  of the Father, who sees it all, what

  have you got to say for yourself?!”

  As if in pain, the animal spoke,

  his mouth foaming, his eyes nearly

  swollen shut. “Don’t come any closer . . .

  Peace and calm were my masters

  these days. Even with you gone

  I visited the village. When given

  scraps to eat, I chewed, swallowed

  in silence, with gratitude.

  But I began to see, in many homes,

  how people treat each other,

  embers of greed, intolerance, lies

  glowing subtly in countless faces.

  The weak were losers, the cruel winners.

  Brother made war on brother. Male

  and female were like dog and bitch,

  and then they began to beat me,

  considered me weak for licking

  their hands and feet. I believed

  you: all of creation were family—

  men my siblings, oxen too, the stars

  my sisters, my brothers worms.

  But they picked on me, drove

  me away. Their laughing was like

  scalding water, re-awakening

  a beast—suddenly a ‘bad’ wolf

  is what I was, yet better than most

  of them. And so the struggle

  to survive took over: to defend myself,

  to feed myself, like the bear does,

  like the boar, who, in order to live,

  must kill. So let me remain here,

  wild and free. And you, my friend,

  back to your people, your good

  and tender deeds.” The man

  didn’t say a word. Deep

  was his gaze. Then he walked away,

  tears on his cheek. His heart,