EAST BOSTON, 1996
by Franz Wright
IArmed ConflictSnowy light fills the room
pronouncing itself
softly. The telephone ringing
in the deserted city—
On the BusIt's one thing when you're twenty-one,
and I was way past twenty-one.
With unshaven face half concealed in the collar
of some deceased porcine philanthropist's
black cashmere rag of a coat,
I knew that I looked like a suicide
returning an overdue book to the library.
Almost everyone else did as well,
but I found no particular solace in this;
at best, the fact awakened some diverting speculations
on the comparative benefits
of waiting in front of a ditch to be shot
alone or in the company
of others, and then whether one would prefer
these last hypothetical others
to be friends, family, enemies, total
or relative strangers. Would you hold hands?
Or would you rather like a good Homo sapiens
monster employ them
to cover your genitals?
What percentage would lose bowel control?
And given time restrictions—
and assuming some still had the ability to move—
would ostracism result? Anyway,
I knew the rules on this bus.
No eye contact: the eyes of the terrified
terrify. Look
like you know where you're going,
possess ample change to get there,
and don't move your lips when you talk
to yourself: the destroyed
and sick, the poor, the hungry
and the disturbed estrange.
The badly dressed estrange, even,
and that is uncalled for. The degree
of one's power to estrange will increase
in direct proportion to the depth
of need for others. Do not cry.
This can only bring about, on the one hand,
an instant condition of banishment
from the sole available companionship or,
on the other, a near–
fatal beating (one more disappointment).
Just follow the simple instruction
if you ever come here.
It's easy to remember--any idiot can do it.
Don't cry,
the world has abandoned us.
Night WalkThe all-night convenience store's empty
and no one is behind the counter.
You open and shut the glass door a few times
causing a bell to go off,
but no one appears. You only came
to buy a pack of cigarettes, maybe
a copy of yesterday's newspaper—
finally you take one and leave
thirty-five cents in its place.
It is freezing, but it is a good thing
to step outside again:
you can feel less alone in the night,
with lights on here and there
between the dark buildings and trees.
Your own among them, somewhere.
There must be thousands of people
in this city who are dying
to welcome you into their small bolted rooms,
to sit you down and tell you
what has happened to their lives.
And the night smells like snow.
Walking home, for a moment
you almost believe you could start again.
And an intense love rushes to your heart,
and hope. It's unendurable, unendurable.
Solitary Play: Minnesota, 1961In a clearing in the cornstalks, in light
November snow it was suggested
that I fire
on that muttering family of crows.
I complied
and watched as those big ruffled shadows
rose from the ground, scattered and vanished
in the direction of barren
border trees, commencing
to speak all at once
in hysterical tongues.
All except for one,
deceased.
I turned it over with my boot.
The eyes stared
at the sky, the minute
snowflakes falling into them.
Its beak was partly opened.
It was then I vomited a little.
This achievement was the last thing I'd expected
when they dug up the old .22
for my afternoon's amusement
and banishment. I was just eight, but I swore
then and there
my career as death was finished.
The ground was hard but I considered
going back to the house for a shovel;
it did not seem wholly implausible
that I might turn around to find
my victim limping after me,
and I ended up walking away from the house
for an hour or so.
Later on I cried and told my mother.
She comforted me, as I knew perfectly well she would.
In her opinion I was not to blame.
It was that gun. And besides,
she was certain crows had their own heaven.
I was off the hook.
My crow was much better off now.
That's what she thought.
Home RemedyYou could call someone
where it's still early.
Go out and look at the stars
shining
in the past.
Or open the Joachim Jeremias to the densely printed
page, its corner folded
for some reason
not yet remembered
before you set the clock.
You have to set the clock—
for a moment that doesn't exist yet
or one that has already passed, interestingly
symbolized by the identical numeral.
The friendly medications are beginning
to kick in: the frightening
objects
emitting the faint nimbus
of their reality, slowly
returning
to normal,
if this had been an actual emergency.
IIThe long silences need to be loved, perhaps
more than the words
which arrive
to describe them
in time.
ReparationsThe day's coming
when I will no longer consider
my mere presence inexpiable.
I will place my hand in that flame
and feel nothing.
I will ask nobody's forgiveness again.
Or I will just go
among people no more—
I may writhe with
remorse in the night, but
the operation must be
undertaken by
me, anesthesialess.
No one must be asked to relinquish
a grievance that can't be removed
without further destruction, it may be
it is lodged in who he is now
like a bullet in a brain
whose removal might only worsen its change.
The forgiveness! I know it
will be freely offered
or it won't, and that is all—
and no one may bestow it
on himself.
If it is to come
it will come of itself like a separate
being,
a mystery, working
unseen as a wind causes still
leaves or water to move once again.
And hide me in the shadow of Your wings.
Let the heart be moved again.
Labels: franz wright, poetry, poets
