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The weight of a man on a woman is like falling into the river without drowning. Above, the world is burning and fighting. Lost worlds flow through others. But down here beneath water’s skin, river floor, sand, everything is floating, rocking. Water falls through our hands as we fall through it. And when a woman and a man come up from water they stand at the elemental edge of difference. Mirrored on water’s skin, they are fired clay, water evaporating into air. They are where water turns away from land and goes back to enter a larger sea. A man and a woman are like those rivers, entering a larger sea greater than the sum of all its parts.

Two armies stand enrolled beneath The banner with the starry wreath; One, facing battle, blight and blast, Through twice a hundred fields has passed; Its deeds against a ruffian foe, Steam, valley, hill, and mountain know, Till every wind that sweeps the land Goes, glory laden, from the strand. The other, with a narrower scope, Yet led by not less grand a hope, Hath won, perhaps, as proud a place, And wears its fame with meeker grace. Wives march beneath its glittering sign, Fond mothers swell the lovely line, And many a sweetheart hides her blush In the young patriot’s generous flush. No breeze of battle ever fanned The colors of that tender band; Its office is beside the bed, Where throbs some sick or wounded head. It does not court the soldier’s tomb, But plies the needle and the loom; And, by a thousand peaceful deeds, Supplies a struggling nation’s needs. Nor is that army’s gentle might Unfelt amid the deadly fight; It nerves the son’s, the husband's hand, It points the lover’s fearless brand; It thrills the languid, warms the cold, Gives even new courage to the bold; And sometimes lifts the veriest clod To its own lofty trust in God. When Heaven shall blow the trump of peace, And bid this weary warfare cease, Their several missions nobly done, The triumph grasped, and freedom won, Both armies, from their toils at rest, Alike may claim the victor’s crest, But each shall see its dearest prize Gleam softly from the other’s eyes.

When I feel the old hunger coming on, I think of my two great-aunts, A farmer’s daughters, Speaking into the dusk in North Dakota. I imagine the dark baron Riding out of their mouths, Thick-skinned and girded Against disaster, swathed In cuirass and chainmail and a curse. My hunger was theirs Too long ago. It swims in my blood, Groping for a foothold. It is the dark I thrust my tongue against, The wine and the delicate symphony That makes my head tick so exquisitely Tonight. My ladies, My dusky girls, I see you With your bustles puffed up like life preservers, Your needlepoint rose garden, Your George Eliot coiffures, Your flounces gathered like an 1890s valentine. You both took heroin. Your father never noticed. You sprinkled it in your oatmeal, Embroidered doilies with it, Ate it like a last supper At midnight. I know what you meant. There was always the hunger, The death of small things Somewhere in your body, The children that would never Take place in either of you. You were a garden of lost letters. A lust inhabited your veins. My addicts, The village spoke of you. Under your parasols, two rose windows, The world swam with color. Riding the monotonous hills at daybreak, You escaped the indecisions Your blood has handed down To me. You rode your father’s spotted horses As if they might have ferried you Over an edge, a dark mouth in the distance. I see you ride the black hills of my mind, Sidesaddle, gowned in lemon silk, Galloping In your laced-up flesh, completely unaware Of something I inherited, The doubt, The fear, The needle point of speech, The hunger you passed down that I Possess.

I saw a boy with eager eye Open a book upon a stall, And read as he’d devour it all; Which when the stall-man did espy, Soon to the boy I heard him call, ‘You, Sir, you never buy a book, Therefore in one you shall not look.’ The boy passed slowly on, and with a sigh He wished he never had been taught to read, Then of the old churl’s books he should have had no need. Of sufferings the poor have many, Which never can the rich annoy. I soon perceived another boy Who looked as if he’d not had any Food for that day at least, enjoy The sight of cold meat in a tavern larder. This boy’s case, thought I, is surely harder, Thus hungry longing, thus without a penny, Beholding choice of dainty dressed meat; No wonder if he wish he ne’er had learned to eat.

In my father’s garden there are two cages.  In one is a lion, which my father’s slaves brought from the desert of Ninavah; in the other is a songless sparrow. Every day at dawn the sparrow calls to the lion, “Good morrow to thee, brother prisoner.”

Heavy hangs the raindrop From the burdened spray; Heavy broods the damp mist On uplands far away; Heavy looms the dull sky, Heavy rolls the sea— And heavy beats the young heart Beneath that lonely tree. Never has a blue streak Cleft the clouds since morn— Never has his grim Fate Smiled since he was born. Frowning on the infant, Shadowing childhood’s joy, Guardian angel knows not That melancholy boy. Day is passing swiftly Its sad and sombre prime; Youth is fast invading Sterner manhood’s time. All the flowers are praying For sun before they close, And he prays too, unknowing, That sunless human rose! Blossoms, that the west wind Has never wooed to blow, Scentless are your petals, Your dew as cold as snow. Soul, where kindred kindness No early promise woke, Barren is your beauty As weed upon the rock. Wither, Brothers, wither, You were vainly given— Earth reserves no blessing For the unblessed of Heaven! Child of Delight! with sunbright hair, And seablue, seadeep eyes; Spirit of Bliss, what brings thee here, Beneath these sullen skies? Thou shouldst live in eternal spring, Where endless day is never dim; Why, seraph, has thy erring wing Borne thee down to weep with him? “Ah, not from heaven am I descended, And I do not come to mingle tears; But sweet is day, though with shadows blended; And, though clouded, sweet are youthful years. “I, the image of light and gladness, Saw and pitied that mournful boy, And I swore to take his gloomy sadness, And give to him my beamy joy. “Heavy and dark the night is closing; Heavy and dark may its biding be: Better for all from grief reposing, And better for all who watch like me. “Guardian angel, he lacks no longer; Evil fortune he need not fear: Fate is strong, but Love is stronger; And more unsleeping than angel’s care.”

i For Laurita, my sister’s friend The moon is dead dead — it will come back to life in the spring when a south wind ruffles the brow of the poplars when our hearts yield their harvest of sighs when the roofs wear their grass hats The moon is dead dead — it will come back to life in the spring ii For Isabelita, my sister The evening sings a lullaby to the oranges My little sister sings “the earth is an orange” The moon weeping says “I want to be an orange” You can’t be — my dear — even if you turn pink or a little bit lemon How sad! Translated from the Spanish

And have we done with War at last? Well, we've been lucky devils both, And there's no need of pledge or oath To bind our lovely friendship fast, By firmer stuff Close bound enough. By wire and wood and stake we're bound, By Fricourt and by Festubert, By whipping rain, by the sun's glare, By all the misery and loud sound, By a Spring day, By Picard clay. Show me the two so closely bound As we, by the wet bond of blood, By friendship blossoming from mud, By Death: we faced him, and we found Beauty in Death, In dead men, breath.

I look through glass and see a young woman of twenty, washing dishes, and the window turns into a painting. She is myself thirty years ago. She holds the same blue bowls and brass teapot I still own. I see her outline against lamplight; she knows only her side of the pane. The porch where I stand is empty. Sunlight fades. I hear water run in the sink as she lowers her head, blind to the future. She does not imagine I exist. I step forward for a better look and she dissolves into lumber and paint. A gate I passed through to the next life loses shape. Once more I stand squared into the present, among maple trees and scissor-tailed birds, in a garden, almost a mother to that faint, distant woman.

Eighteen-sixty eighteen sixty-four, six hundred ten thousand men gaseous gray, blackened body parts like chopped wood in Virginia sunshine. Or nineteen-fourteen nineteen-eighteen, trench rats, thousands, big as badgers, rip chines from horse and human flesh. IED's, cluster bombs, punji sticks, primed to shred feet, thighs, spine, sack, yesterday, when we were countless. Conscience says Count them up and be good, suck on me like red candy stick in casual lookaway moments. Protected by neighbors, two girls villagers know to be deficient doll themselves up as bombs for market day's chickens and yams, and like a world-body neural surge, their protectors fly into fatty parts.