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There is the lightning-white moment when I learn— the way my costive train to Krakow stopped and I woke to find myself, in jostling twilight, at the Auschwitz platform— that the Italian postcard I garnered in Milan years ago as a genial talisman isn’t of a pipe-dreaming Italian boy, no, no, but an androgynous image of Sophie Scholl, the young, intrepid resistance heroine— as if I’d registered, in my Schubert-adoring daughter, my school-resisting son, a fire undetected before: Doric-strong nouns demanding What would you undertake to stop tyranny?— stouthearted nouns: integrity, probity, courage; in benighted Munich, the spit-in-the-eye swiftness, the unbossed bloom of a crossed-out swastika, the fierce integrity in the gust of the word freedom sprayed over the walls and ramparts of a deranged fatherland that rent flesh as if it were foolscap— Someday you will be where I am now, a steely, premonitory Sophie proclaimed to the rapacious Nazi tribunal that rushed her to execution— Gazer, collector, in clarity’s name, look close, then closer: it’s not just a bud-sweet, pensive beauty, a bel ragazzo’s charm; all these years: it’s the spirit of crusading youth that I’ve cherished.

—Cincinnati, Ohio, 1972 Dear Sister, America. Late nights, we lie under the spread and listen to the stereo jazz sounds of WTKO on the FM station. He says I am so fine in my tight, pulled-back and strapless bed-sheet gown. Imagine, the polyester with sequins. A sultry Dinah Washington. Turn. He puts a pillow on his stomach, a finger to his lips and blows — he can do a Louis like nobody else. Turn, to the Golden Oldies. Sometimes, he calls me his favorite Supreme or his one and only Apollo showgirl. With the switch of a dial, we move in unison. In the infinite dark, our flickering stations turn.

Dear Folks, (Smile) Enclosed, is the Ordinary River. It is called “That Devil,” In whose name the locals are baptized. Finally that river twists Like a hurt thing— They say it’s nothing. It has become a new road In a naked place. Then, I am nothing And it is that dream I dreamed I dreamed. Sincerely, ~ Hello, I have just passed “Doubt,” It is near “Milk Teeth,” And “Nothing,” and “Falling Out.” There are flowers and evidence Of ambiguous winds. “Doubt” is like a man Walking in his sleep, seriously. Offhand, it reminds me Of a Jamesian novel With the motives, the motives, the motives. Have Mercy, ~ Say, To get to Innocence, You take the narrow trail From Deep. You squeeze into the mountain’s waves. If you meet savage rock, It is the wrong way. Turn left. . . There, then, in our hearts’ Honeymoon, lay I. Queequeg ~ J.P., Today is Friday. We are still on the hill Called Spirit of the Wind But we are down real low Like new flame Just to be close. Dad ~ Baby G., Sunday, And what you are probably babbling I seem to see, (I.e.) at 60 mph This is the alfalfa field Of my heart. There is no museum here, And in a convertible, Where birds can sing, Anything is possible. Dad ~ Milton, There is a mountain called Can She is blind with snow But all seers are blind What we need In the morning when we always see her And are always reborn Is a magnificent horn And the strangely uneven voice Of her life Thanks, ~ Bill, I checked this out. . . You know that ridge up there Is north, because you know For no reason (except this). A great wind blows. Behind it, the stars come out Virtually human. And here you are, apparently Crude, like the sound Of a breaking string That seems to come from the sky. So Long,

It was an Artless Poster Girl pinned up against my wall, She was tremendous ugly, she was exceeding tall; I was gazing at her idly, and I think I must have slept, For that poster maiden lifted up her poster voice, and wept. She said between her poster sobs, ‘I think it’s rather rough To be jeered and fleered and flouted, and I’ve stood it long enough; I’m tired of being quoted as a Fright and Fad and Freak, And I take this opportunity my poster mind to speak. ‘Although my hair is carmine and my nose is edged with blue, Although my style is splashy and my shade effects are few, Although I’m out of drawing and my back hair is a show, Yet I have n’t half the whimseys of the maidens that you know. ‘I never keep you waiting while I prink before the glass, I never talk such twaddle as that little Dawson lass, I never paint on china, nor erotic novels write, And I never have recited “Curfew must not ring tonight”. ‘I don’t rave over Ibsen, I never, never flirt, I never wear a shirt waist with a disconnected skirt; I never speak in public on “The Suffrage”, or “The Race”, I never talk while playing whist, or trump my partner’s ace.’ I said: ‘O artless Poster Girl, you’re in the right of it, You are a joy forever, though a thing of beauty, nit!’ And from her madder eyebrows to her utmost purple swirl, Against all captious critics I’ll defend the Poster Girl.

Posterity, this me is Now— Record this Now.Virginia, 1705 Not always settled. I am settled Over history’s yellow pages, blank Pages, must I write my old dark Thoughts: Does time mask or unmask Mind? This sweet almond now In my mouth as in their mouths Then, sweet in its rind, but silent I think: I am blood at oak, my hand A blood petal unfurled over oak, My desk, my wooded den, a pistil, A pen. Believe me: I speak honest And true. First. Economy ravishing and jealous In woods, the virgin woods. Sap is sweet so sap quarrels On the tongue. What is worth Worth? Sap sweet so sap ambers; In the virgin woods none can cut The profit from the tongue. Amber Gold so gold whispers at the edge Of each, our minds. The Natives Wear skins on skin; the women Bare their breasts and do not Blush. Was she a King’s daughter? She walked below the branches; The sun thin in silken lines The sated spiders left. Her brothers Showed us what seeds to sow. Glass beads contain light, a miracle To trade. Her skin a syrup Tone, the beads gold against her Wrist glowed. Midnight her crown Of hair plaited with one strand Of gold, thin as day’s edge when dusk Both dulls and hones that glow. “We’ll barter it.” Her brother feels Cheated when we offer a bolt Less of wool than he asks. Write it Down. Profit in black ink. They close Their eyes, quick as bark blinks Down dark on axe’s silver bite, When the deal is done. The ledger’s Honest, “I am a liar. Be aware.” Then. Pluck the withered gold at hand, The pumpkin leaves yellow, Sere and dust. Neglect the acre. Let the green aphids multiply And suck. We teethed our vision: A yellow sort of isinglass dust, Sunlit in silt, under the water Of our stream. The squash blossom Closed its eye; we squinted to see Beneath the stream. That summer We fed our hearts on dust. We grew Dust in gardens. We grew rich Until the gold sheen disclosed It was but gilded dust. We lived Some time on mussel, crab, berry, Those fruits of the wild earth. No one Spoke the word “starving.” We were Forced to be content with what fell Just in our mouths. Earlier Than First. Thought in the forest speaks A wooden chorus. My own voice Multiplied the almond by the pine. Roanoke,1588. Repaired the houses Now grown up with weeds. We make wooden houses. How quiet One voice, mumbling verses out The wilderness, by the fire In the corner. Bibles clothed in skin As the Natives come clothed.Exodus A comfort: to be chosen, safe, God spoke in smoke by day, in light By night. A manna faith—of manna. When Mr. White arrived, late August 1590,

There are two kinds of people, soldiers and women, as Virginia Woolf said. Both for decoration only. Now that is too kind. It’s technical: virgins and wolves. We have choices now. Two little girls walk into a bar, one orders a shirley temple. Shirley Temple’s pimp comes over and says you won’t be sorry. She’s a fine piece of work but she don’t come cheap. Myself, I’m in less fear of predators than of walking around in my mother’s body. That’s sneaky, that’s more than naked. Let’s even it up: you go on fuming in your gray room. I am voracious alone. Blank and loose, metallic lingerie. And rare black-tipped cigarettes in a handmade basket case. Which of us weaves the world together with a quicker blur of armed seduction: your war-on-thugs, my body stockings. Ascetic or carnivore. Men will crack your glaze even if you leave them before morning. Pigs ride the sirens in packs. Ah, flesh, technoflesh, there are two kinds of people. Hot with mixed light, drunk on insult. You and me.

Would it surprise you to learn that years beyond your longest winter you still get letters from your bank, your old philanthropies, cold flakes drifting through the mail-slot with your name? Though it's been a long time since your face interrupted the light in my door-frame, and the last tremblings of your voice have drained from my telephone wire, from the lists of the likely, your name is not missing. It circles in the shadow-world of the machines, a wind-blown ghost. For generosity will be exalted, and good credit outlasts death. Caribbean cruises, recipes, low-interest loans. For you who asked so much of life, who lived acutely even in duress, the brimming world awaits your signature. Cancer and heart disease are still counting on you for a cure. B'nai Brith numbers you among the blessed. They miss you. They want you back.

From embarrassment, I made statements. My icons—tight caves and mouths—stuck together briefly like dry lips, like a lover’s insults. The fact is they were ugly to all of us. I said, How painstakingly personal! Here are the words for this, Relentless as insects! I was hysterical. Every tone became artful, the worst urges nuzzling like housepets for someone to feel them, each real subject demanding more real context for remarks. Then abstractions insinuating their sharp edges, asking to pry open privacies alone in the bathroom at bedtime then with strangers in elevators, at stop signs. Even then, I knew you’d shun them, because who would choose such intrusions? I learned to love this isolation as a woman who appears to listen. All night I’d talk about my life anticipating her dramatic relief, believing her affectionate gestures filled in what wasn’t spoken. At those times she seemed so genuine and friendly, a voice from inside my own body describing my shameless surrender as our first kiss, perfect as gravity.

Now that I have cooled to you Let there be gold of tarnished masonry, Temples soothed by the sun to ruin That sleep utterly. Give me hand for the dances, Ripples at Philae, in and out, And lips, my Lesbian, Wall flowers that once were flame. Your hair is my Carthage And my arms the bow, And our words arrows To shoot the stars Who from that misty sea Swarm to destroy us. But you there beside me— Oh how shall I defy you, Who wound me in the night With breasts shining Like Venus and like Mars? The night that is shouting Jason When the loud eaves rattle As with waves above me Blue at the prow of my desire.

Chemical angels ride into this vacant room as walls and windows drip away into western fronts, post depression farm boundaries barely barb-wired together, enclosed stone pile pastures a gray horse standing still, facing north, a snort of breath drifting to a rail car passing horizon the wind hinting the spirit of ice nights so long you can only hope the red blood circling for warmth in your cells don’t freeze here with the rest of this lost American dream.