to this crisis, to this dwelling place.
And yes, there is a mill, some four brushstrokes
delicately upon a distant withered lawn. Economy
constitutes this life: the daughter has but one
dress, that she wears; she has but one suitor,
soon to pass away; but one father, hateful,
gathering the plurals of sadness to himself;
one sadness, shared like bread; one world, beyond,
evoked once by the single traveler who has seen her
stark against foreshortened youth. For they grow old,
these wild daughters, bound to fathers
in grim lands. In them grief is a yellow tree, encircled
by a fence of bird-like angels. No shout will cause
this flock to rise to air. And here the light
is never strong enough for the face upon waking,
though it pools where the animals sleep,
and comes radiant at night through unreachable
fields, through windows which, seen with closed eyes,
confirm all dread — elsewhere there is a dance
that many have joined. She winces, and her one hand
is joined by the other, as if it were the painter himself, who,
painting an arm to hold the arm which looked
so hard to bear, had given himself away.
He was this traveler, Arravelli, who lied and yet did not lie,
a young man who said he would return.
The Privileged Girl Speaks
Whatever you do by the margin,
don’t touch the tree line. It’s poisonous.
Grandfather planted it sixty years ago
to keep things out. He’s the only one
it cares for. You should see
the old man take a walk. He goes along
the forest edge, whistling, “St. Pierre is Home”
and it opens like a door
into some other wooden room.
Bestiary 1
It was a gray sun that stood at the door that day
and asked me for some water. Deny the sun
a cup of water? I could not.
And let me tell you something else. If it had asked
for a bed I’d have given it a bed. If it had asked
for a roasted calf, I’d have given it a roasted calf.
Soon after it left, I felt empty. I went
back to my needlepoint — three yellow bees
trying to escape from the Archangel Gabriel.
They’d stung him rather badly
on his hands and on the loose and careless
portions of his wings.
A Set Piece
to be told at gatherings
The resignation of the sheriff left nothing to be done. The populace of that tiny hamlet poured out into the cramped streets, half-dressed and quarrelsome. Shops were broken into. Women were vigorously affronted. Men too were affronted, with equal vigor and panache. Many living near the municipal zoo were beaten by a crowd of contrary children. I taught everyone a hymn I had written, complete with musical accompaniment. It went:
Kill us if you like,
but you won’t like Hell
when you do (when you do)
come to (come to)
in the heat (in the hot)
in the hot (in the heat)
in the goddamn fire of the Lord.
I pretend now to have made it up, but actually an old woman sang it to me when I menaced her husband with my little knife. I wanted their clothing, particularly her aubergine housecoat.
But don’t be concerned for me. This sort of thing is what everyone does when everyone does it. And everyone who doesn’t does play along, or at least watches from the wings as those who do do what they do, whether well or wantonly.
In another hour, we shall burn the town to bits. I’ve always wanted to, and now we’re in cahoots. It’s a wonderful thing, being in cahoots. One can’t help but prefer it. We’ll all sit on the hill outside of town and laugh and hold hands with pretty girls and boys while pretty girls and boys laugh and hold hands with us.
And the sky will stream fitfully across the sky, its sails filled by the same wind that prompted us this morning when we rose, rosy cheeked and hamhanded from our all-too-narrow beds, filled with the same rippling restless pleasure that even now sits like a lantern in my youthful throat.
Bestiary 2
A ninety-five-year-old pilgrim is at the door.
She’s knocked three times. Each time
she knocks, a knuckle in her hand breaks.
She wants a cup of water.
The desert here is wide.
In fact, this is the widest point.
Sometimes I like to go up to the roof
and ring our huge bell.
The sound floats in the air
like some hundred ships
all tossed on a single wave.
It moves out across the sand,
and nothing stops it. I think it can
go forever. I think of places the sound
goes. Cottages, little green
hedgerows, gardeners looking up.
“Oh, it’s time for lunch,” they must say,
“there’s the bell.”
A Turn
So many people had come by asking for water that day
that I took the last one with me to the well.
We both climbed in. It is, you know, one of my favorite places.
At the bottom, I have set up a fine little room
with soft cushions and a phonograph.
“What would you like to hear,” I ask her.
She says, “Mozart, I guess,” and darts
her little tongue at me, coyly disengages a dress strap.
“Oh you deipnosophists are all alike!” I shout,
and put on Brahms to spite her.
In response, she wags her tail. It is long and soft,
most alluring. Alluring, one might say,