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The heretic’s papers were spread out on the armchair * At the window, fruit of spring, you can bite again against the weather weapons I let fall outside pharmacies, drowsy and bright * Air comes to the confused bends in the rail where in a mirror lush food puts you out for 1 night. Then it is the weather at noon that prepares to spring on you in December, a month ago blowing the lights out with a sob * On long walks a poorly tuned radio in my world     my  head with a star attached swims back * Useless—it was the wrong tree but the flag in the school breeze scans the men and women on my sleeve * A . . . turned her head towards the open window of the shop. The voice was low. It did not sound like a man’s voice. * Eighteen trees starting from the end of the block outside the pharmacy, with beards today to the subway, station, steps of a land-post “screen my heart” * Under the dog’s neck When the radio went on. Doctor He moved his face away to The pines, a deep thought. The trees, for a few seconds they were Real to him, his ears stopped The river where no life could touch him. He pressed his ear against the cold Shrill whine. Dusty legs Wondered why they had sent him To this place, they feared the cobwebs Were swaying on the unique bed. Mown grass has the peppery smell Of being crowded together on This bed, and a feeling of dark apprehension Came over him. I watch a horse Gather speed, look at a movie With you. Your words are the grime On the sidestreet, down towards the river, Yellow in the cold glare of floodlights In the yard. In the middle of the line I repeated your instructions, I puzzled with a stranger does to you In a dream. Chunks Of meat are marked Cars following me as a thought follows Us from the motel. Father Has read these latinized titles Aloud, but failed And gave place to some smooth yellowish substance, Checked by no one as he rubbed the sponge- Like doll. It had some hair But its legs did not tempt me, The sponginess gave place to the tubes themselves. Colleagues efficiently solve an aggressive Blank to be expected as we sat at the breakfast Table near the door. A tree blocked Her hair spread and fell over the wheel. But the living room shows its trimming of thick straw— The bad mechanic sets the bread on the white cloth

1. The candle will be our medium for dialogue We must always be on speaking terms 2. When you see the candle by the bedside burning it will be my message to you: Do Not Touch! 3. You will heal through herbs & the words I give you to spray unto the solution 4. Never dress in black I may mistake you for someone ready to die 5. As much as possible do not speak wickedly or damn anyone 6. As much as possible stay away from funerals I like to work alone Death is death’s work (Iku n’iku che) 7. Egun will be my messenger 8. You may also petition me through that white staff you know the one— with bells & snail shells You also know the chant 9. Do not be tempted by possessions & titles If you have patience I will make possible those you actually will need 10. Remember this pact & I will give you health & long life (aiku) All this was negotiated just prior to his birth. He probably kneeled before the Owner of the Sky while Iku, his patron Orisha, and many Egun sat watching with fly whisks in hand and full regalia (after all, one of their own was about to embark on his journey to the human world). The ilé aiyé. He probably placed in circular fashion inside a big calabash all his choices, probably whispered into the gourd a slow "Ashé tó iba Eshu." We say probably because one thing is for sure, El Niño does not remember the details. In fact no one does (except the deities & Iku). No one remembers the details of their creation. No one remembers the destiny, the mission they chose, their personal Orisha, and most importantly the date of their last breath. Memory & continuity. Keeping el hilo de la conversación. Never losing the wavy & fragile link that keeps you grounded to yr root. The dialogue with spirits that may tap yr left shoulder & all that. But no one remembers. No one remembers. Ésto si es trágico. In order to recall the details of what went on in the other world, to map his destiny, El Niño must be taken for divination. And even then one session won’t do it. The story will get revealed as his life turns each page & changes rhythm & the oracle is cast several more times. So they took El Niño to the diviner Edikán's house. After pouring libations & reciting the necessary ayuba prayers—greeting the creator, the ancestors, the divination, earth, wind, river, ocean, jungle, & crossroad orishas, Edikán cast the divining chain/ópele used by the babalawo. A picture began to emerge. He said the Orishas & Egun, collectively called ara orun or citizens of the other world, have given us certain verses & stories to deliver messages regarding the rhythms of our lives. He said El Niño’s patron deity is Oshun but he will always have an affinity with Ogun & Obatalá. But most prominent is his close relationship with Egun, that is, the ancestors, Iku’s messengers. He said it would be through a kinship with Egun that he would accomplish his most difficult tasks; even the arts of divination. He will be a mouthpiece for Egun. Edikán said El Niño has a predisposition to a vivid imagination. Because of this there are & will be mysterious phenomena happening to him like visions & dreams of secret songs. He will not regard them as strange. He said El Niño should be taught even at an early age the rigors of an herbalist. He should be taught at least how to recognize certain trees & plants, the healing properties of the most commonly used herbs, their harvesting times, how they mix & with what substances. All this will eventually lead to an encyclopedic knowledge not only of their healing properties but of their ability to alter the invisible rhythms that underlie most things. Edikán said there will be certain resguardos that must be prepared so as to begin bridging the gap between Orishas, Iku, Egun, & himself. Even though El Niño’s inner head/ori inu chose a good destiny in the other world, such destiny must be aligned with his physical head/ori in this world. It will be Orishas & Egun that will focus his life & help him fulfill the destiny he chose in the other world. He said beginning with the feet El Niño must be securely fastened to the earth so as to not depart too soon for the other world. (You see there is always the detail of Iku being overprotective. The relationship is like playing with a leopard—even an affectionate jab with its paw will cause a scar). The head will also have to be ritually prepared & fed with bits of white fruit among other ingredients & thus given a firm root, stability—“para que su cabeza no esté en el aire,” he said. We were witness to this event. We heard what needed to be done. There was actually a time, maybe this is still going on, when people consulted with the spirit world, the other world, on such occasions as the third month after birth. We collected the ingredients that would shape his destiny & began to assemble them. Much of them were from the river, the jungle, & of course, the cemetery. We heard what needed to be done. Ara Orun are hip to the images & subtle rhythms that stories & verses evoke. The same images & subtle rhythms running through our lives. Edikán said that barring some details of modernity, his life would follow a certain ancient story pertaining to the divination— Ofun is like this/ Ofun ni jé bé— The page continues to turn.The rhythm, the rhythm will come from dreams.

And the place was water Fish fowl flood Water lily mud My life in the leaves and on water My mother and I born in swale and swamp and sworn to water My father thru marsh fog sculled down from high ground saw her face at the organ bore the weight of lake water and the cold— he seined for carp to be sold that their daughter might go high on land to learn Saw his wife turn deaf and away She who knew boats and ropes no longer played She helped him string out nets for tarring And she could shoot He was cool to the man who stole his minnows by night and next day offered to sell them back He brought in a sack of dandelion greens if no flood No oranges—none at hand No marsh marigold where the water rose He kept us afloat I mourn her not hearing canvasbacks their blast-off rise from the water Not hearing sora rails’s sweet spoon-tapped waterglass- descending scale- tear-drop-tittle Did she giggle as a girl? His skiff skimmed the coiled celery now gone from these streams due to carp He knew duckweed fall-migrates toward Mud Lake bottom Knew what lay under leaf decay and on pickerel weeds before summer hum To be counted on: new leaves new dead leaves He could not —like water bugs— stride surface tension He netted loneliness As to his bright new car my mother—her house next his—averred: A hummingbird can’t haul Anchored here in the rise and sink of life— middle years’ nights he sat beside his shoes rocking his chair Roped not “looped in the loop of her hair” I grew in green slide and slant of shore and shade Child-time—wade thru weeds Maples to swing from Pewee-glissando sublime slime- song Grew riding the river Books at home-pier Shelley could steer as he read I was the solitary plover a pencil for a wing-bone From the secret notes I must tilt upon the pressure execute and adjust In us sea-air rhythm “We live by the urgent wave of the verse” Seven year molt for the solitary bird and so young Seven years the one dress for town once a week One for home faded blue-striped as she piped her cry Dancing grounds my people had none woodcocks had— backland- air around Solemnities such as what flower to take to grandfather’s grave unless water lilies— he who’d bowed his head to grass as he mowed Iris now grows on fill for the two and for him where they lie How much less am I in the dark than they? Effort lay in us before religions at pond bottom All things move toward the light except those that freely work down to oceans’ black depths In us an impulse tests the unknown River rising—flood Now melt and leave home Return—broom wet naturally wet Under soak-heavy rug water bugs hatched— no snake in the house Where were they?— she who knew how to clean up after floods he who bailed boats, houses Water endows us with buckled floors You with sea water running in your veins sit down in water Expect the long-stemmed blue speedwell to renew itself O my floating life Do not save love for things Throw things to the flood ruined by the flood Leave the new unbought— all one in the end— water I possessed the high word: The boy my friend played his violin in the great hall On this stream my moonnight memory washed of hardships maneuvers barges thru the mouth of the river They fished in beauty It was not always so In Fishes red Mars rising rides the sloughs and sluices of my mind with the persons on the edge

Suddenly discovering in the eyes of the very beautiful Normande cocotte The eyes of the very learned British Museum assistant.

Feeling her head pick up her body, question mark, blurred misstamped question mark snakes out of   bed, trying to  jiggle unhappiness as little as possible, not to wake pain, not to raise a shade, if  raising a shade in the dark wakes pain. Under the shade the stars are awake, smiling — ready to frown on unhappiness. And the happiness of  the unconscious is scurrying already from the knife-edge of   light, pain’s night-light, waiting under the door across the hall. Dread’s square hair stiffens, her feet have corners, trying to trick the stairs out of their creaking, and the house out of  groaning before coffee, before resurrection. Death before resurrection is hard; breakfast and the stars belong first; plenty of  time to die all day when everything does groan, and unhappiness shakes itself out like a musty old mare all over the house. Dread says to herself: Serves me right for leaving home, for learning to read; serves me right for children and menopause and cosmetic surgery, and elation in gin. I must travel back through the shade and the black holes and the frowns, through drink and tampon and alphabet to the kitchen and mother and dad and the morning of  the resurrection was the first day.

Silence is the sound the knife makes slitting the skin. Can you identify my weakness, a pricking sensation and numbness in one limb? Can you hold this tongue? Tell me, what is the function of meticulous courage. You are the most yourself when you are in the motion. One can be quick and too quick. I have a stomach too. It gets hungry. If I be of necessity opportunity, if there be the slightest chance of success, why have a mind, if? Does that scream in the night across the alley beg an answer? Are we crowning into the sludge of an injury and its repair? An elephant is larger and stronger than a horse; but it is not preferred as a beast of burden. Strength is a wee umbrella in the storm. This the friction sound heard in inspiration, expiration, or both. For convenience of description, blood is bright red and frothy. Have you earned the privilege of making mistakes? There really is no sex in science. The nomenclature lifts delicate subjects up from the plane in which language places them. Man has more strength, woman, more endurance. The hands and the instruments are the chief sources of danger. This fever. There is no subject on which so much has been written and so little known.

Ere on my bed my limbs I lay, It hath not been my use to pray With moving lips or bended knees; But silently, by slow degrees, My spirit I to Love compose, In humble trust mine eye-lids close, With reverential resignation No wish conceived, no thought exprest, Only a sense of supplication; A sense o'er all my soul imprest That I am weak, yet not unblest, Since in me, round me, every where Eternal strength and Wisdom are. But yester-night I prayed aloud In anguish and in agony, Up-starting from the fiendish crowd Of shapes and thoughts that tortured me: A lurid light, a trampling throng, Sense of intolerable wrong, And whom I scorned, those only strong! Thirst of revenge, the powerless will Still baffled, and yet burning still! Desire with loathing strangely mixed On wild or hateful objects fixed. Fantastic passions! maddening brawl! And shame and terror over all! Deeds to be hid which were not hid, Which all confused I could not know Whether I suffered, or I did: For all seemed guilt, remorse or woe, My own or others still the same Life-stifling fear, soul-stifling shame. So two nights passed: the night's dismay Saddened and stunned the coming day. Sleep, the wide blessing, seemed to me Distemper's worst calamity. The third night, when my own loud scream Had waked me from the fiendish dream, O'ercome with sufferings strange and wild, I wept as I had been a child; And having thus by tears subdued My anguish to a milder mood, Such punishments, I said, were due To natures deepliest stained with sin,— For aye entempesting anew The unfathomable hell within, The horror of their deeds to view, To know and loathe, yet wish and do! Such griefs with such men well agree, But wherefore, wherefore fall on me? To be loved is all I need, And whom I love, I love indeed.

Dusty and treeless, the street sloped beneath us. Somewhere a hammer made thunderclaps, forging the night-sky. Then the children, seeing us, dashed from the Moorish houses, vigorously shouting, vying for position, while the bravest, in worn underpants and plastic sandals, climbed a high crater-like wall and plunged, with murderous cries, into the Roman pool where blue-lipped fish waited. Ah, those glorious soaked heads, spiked like palm fronds! Seeing one in our group clutch her purse— repelled by the wet black princes who shivered in circles of yellow mud and begged from us— I felt ashamed. In the brief African twilight, a canary chirped something shrewdly about avarice. Far off, in the little neighborhood where I grew—with neat cement walkways and crab-apple blossoms— money ran through the fingers of our house, with nothing much to record its loss but unhappiness: one of us ironing servilely, one of us sobbing in a bedroom, one of us sleeping on a rifle, one of us seizing another by the hair, demanding the animal-like submission we thought was love. Sunday evening. Mother is wearing a big cotton shift and tweezing her eyebrows. Her head is a thicket of hairpins. In the round hand-mirror that parodies her face, the world looks greater than it is. I am next to bathe in the water of the poor earth, reused by each of us in order of birth. Gray with sodium and grit, it covers me like a black robe, and yet I feel exalted. Soon the violent rain, like wet Sahara sand, would fall, scrubbing the hot labyrinthine corridors of shuttered houses and aimless dogs, where the sparse life is purgative and inexhaustible, where little pilfering hands moved freely in and out of my trouser pockets, though there were no diamonds except those the eyes mined.

the day after you sighed your last breath out we let your butterflies go your painted ladies four of them born from paper wombs into a cheesecloth cage now proudly decked out in orange and white trimmed in black we let them go with stiffened fingers they would not leave one drifted in hovering half-hearted circles another rested softly on your daughter's wet shoulder a third held close to the budding milkweed you saved from the scythe years ago the last one content to say perched in its velvet cape on my sunlit finger we could not speak so still the afternoon and when time began once again to flow they knew it was for them (the opening of our hands) another ragged breath was drawn as they pumped and sputtered (a single voice) and took to the clouding sky

Summer road the ring around the lake, we drove mostly in silence. Why aren’t I your wife? You swerved around a turtle sunning itself. I wanted to go back. To hold the hot disc of it and place it in the grass. We were late for dinner. One twentieth of a mile an hour, I said.Claws in tar. You turned the car around. Traffic from the direction of the turtle, and you saw before I did, the fifty bones of the carapace, crushed roman dome, the surprise of red blood. I couldn’t help crying, couldn’t keep anything from harm. I’m sorry, you said, and let it hurt. The relief, always, of you in the seat beside me, you’ll never know. Driving that road next winter, you remembered that place in the road.Your turtle. During hibernation, a turtle’s heart beats once for every ten minutes. It cannot voluntarily open its eyes.