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for DreamChad on the death of her sun Mark - mark this word mark this place + tyme - at Papine Kingston Jamaica - age 29 midnight 28/29 April   2001-1002-0210-0120-0020-0000 rev 29 feb 04 WHAT CAN I SAY BUT THIS MY DARLING WHAT CAN I DO BUT TRY TO SPEECH MY HEART YR HEART FROM BREAKING . ‘Kumina is the most African of the [cultural expressions] to be found in Jamaica, with negligible European or Christian influence. Linguistics evidence cites the Kongo as a specific ethnic source for the ‘language’ and possibly the music of kumina. There are varying theories as to whether it was brought with late African [arrivants] after Emancipation, or whether it was rooted in Jamaica from the 18th century, and deepened by . . . later African influence. ‘[Kumina] is to be found primarily in St Thomas and Portland and to a lesser extent in St Mary, St Catherine and Kingston. Kumina ceremonies are usually associated with wakes, entombments or memorial services but can be performed for a whole range of human experiences (births, thankgsiving, invocations for good [or] evil). ‘Kumina sessions [some extending, as in this poem, to twenty-one days], involve singing, dancing and drumming and are of two general types; bailo the more public and less sacred form of kumina, at which time songs are sung mainly in Jamaican [NL/nation-language]; and country - the more African, and serious form, and at which time possession usually occurs. ‘Male and female leaders must exhibit great . . . strength in their control of zombies [zambies] or spirits and assume their positions of leadership after careful training in the feeding habits, ritual procedures, dances, rhythms, and songs of a variety of spirits, by a previous King or ‘Captain’ . . . Queen or ‘Mother’. ‘One is said to ‘catch’myal when possessed by one of the threes classes of Gods - sky, earth-bound, and ancestoal [zambies], these last being the most common form of possession. Each god can be recognized by the initiated by the particular dance style exhibted by the possessed, and by songs and drum rhythms [bandu, plain cyas, scrap- ers, gourds, tin-can rattles, catta sticks & bamboo stamping tubes] to which it responds. ‘At bailo dances, the spirits who are called, more often than not make their presence known by ‘mounting’ (i.e. possessing) a dancer; whose given dance style helps in identifying the spirit, but can span all possibilities of movement. The basic dance posture constitutes an almost erect back and propelling actions of the hips as the feet inch along the ground. The dancers move in a circular [anti-clockwise] pattern around the musicians and centre pole, either singly or with a partner. The arms, shoulders, rib-cage and hips are employed, offering the dancers ample opportunity for variations and interpretations of the counter-beats or polyrhythms. Spins, dips, and ‘breaks’ on the last beat are common dance variations. ‘The journey of the spirits from the ethereal to the mundane world is no less ritualised than other kumina elements. Once invoked by music and other ritual paraphernalia (rum with blood, candles, leaves) the spirits are said to hover near the dancing booth [bood]. If successfully enticed they travel down the centre pole in to the ground, then through the open end of the drum to the head of the drum, where the drummer and Queen must salute its presence. The spirit then re-enters the ground, from where it will travel up the feet of the person selected to be possessed, along the whole length of the body, culminating with the full myal possession in the haed of the [transforming] individual.’Anon, Jamaica journal 10: 1 (Kingston 1986) pp6,7] . First it is the knife in the kitchen. the thick one w/the long bright blade and the thick wooden handle. that knife wdn’t stay flat. each time i wash it. put it down. it drop or ramp up on it spine w/the singing edge of the blade running thin & straight-along like some spiteful future & horizon Pull out the drawer w/the silvers and it still there. sharp. prop-over & unquiet on it omen . The cosmology of sudden unXpecting disaster & its unutterable grief unvomiting the world i seem to be becoming lightning rod for like this wreck of Time we cope so tentative so desperate in dis kingdom of the dread. the voices reach- ing out. be- traying fear & crying out for help beyonn the lyme of reassurance. tryin to mek sense of all de wallawallawalla as the whole world like it topple-over menance. tryin to regain it recompense of balm & balance hallow > ello! . . . ello! . . . Mummy! . . . This is Ingriid . . . Kamau & DreamChad coil in each others blood. she tieing the discomfort his tears for her dead son while she bleeds as her sun keels from its mangle wheel . hit off his latenight midnight bi- cycle middlepassage ship by a rat-racing-on-our-highways new-money quick-monkey ill-legal-jjugs-money-traffikin cyaar - BMW Audi the sleek black latest luxury Discord or Ellectra or streak Ajax Mardza or Alexandria - in Papine - Errol Hill beggarmanpoem . Slade Hopkinson & Breeze madwoman poems Ogou. Soyinka. Dennis Scott’s Dog. Tony McNeill’s Ungod. Vera Bell’s Gog - they happen all here - the unceremonial graveyard. thirsty & unappease - of yout. artists. don gorgons. Caribbean slaves. eee- lectric politricks & politricans. big big-time robber baroms . the 21 days on the first day of yr death it is quiet it is dormant like a doormat no one-foot touch its welcome. its dust on the floor is not disturb nor are the sleeping spirits of this house i sit here in this chair trying to unravel Time so that it wouldn’t happen twine on the second day of yr death. i break a small bread i can still smell the sweet flour of yr firstborn flesh on the third day of yr death. the water in my urine turn to blood i cover the waterfront of the mirror w/a blue cloth where yr face stood on the fourth day yu shd be rising. knocking at the door of darkness. coming back to me i do not hear yr call on the fifth day after yr death. a young white rooster. white white white feathery & shining tail & tall neigbour of sound from miles away in the next village stands in the yard & from his red crown crows & crows & will not go away he struts round to the back-a-wall his one eye clicking clicking as he crows comes to the glissen of my window & he crows loud like the overflowing voice of my Trelawny waterfall on the sixth day after yr death. there is this silence of flowers their petals say their shining needs soft water needs sweet showers needs sweet rain from heaven . i see them once again inside the chapel of my funeral on the seventh day after yr death. the yellow flour in the cup-cakes in the kitchen have gone sour there is an eye of rancid in the middle of their meal i am unhappy like the wind & tides are restless rivers i can’t find you. i can’t find you. i cannot cannot cannot be console to dreams the mad dogs of the pasture kill the cock & pillage it. madwoman wind is scattering white screaming feathers’ petals’ pedals over all the brunt & burnin ochre-colour land on the eiate day after yr death me do nothin. nothin. nothin . i cdn’t even get yr inglish ‘eighth’ spelt streight on the nine/ff night yu rise again from off the dead . i see you now & at the hour of yr o not soff not soffly dead it is my pain it is my privilege. it is my own torn flesh torn fresh o let me comfort us my chile. is not yr heart is broken . on this tenth day i haffe go down to the Station today to find out what they doin about yr det. about the ‘accident’ dem call it. bout the black-hearted man who a-kill yu. an whe dem hide yu body the po. lice who dealin w/this case they cannot look me in the lips and No One kno who the boy is or gone or when he will come-back ten time dis ten dem mek me up & down & book & fourt to fine my sun. an ten ten time dem ave no ansa for me for me for me in dis dry-weatha tunda dem seh because i poor & have no book to haul-out who inside dis station. an i inn got no song to sing becau i colour in dis Marcus Garvey country proud an strong an wrong - yu sun gone out & still yu colour wrong. inn got no i say song i wonda who Port Royal is. when de eart goin again goig crack my daughta Ingrid walk beside me hurt an strong an dress in black her face inside she face ink mekkin sport on the tenth night after a long long distance silence i born into this world w/nothing but my breath & my bare back an hornets in my chess now i will haffe doubt if god is good & black & honesty wha good god do fe me? whe god dat cricket midnight criminal when Mark of god get call like dat & kill Mark cyaan dead so if good. if god my breath give birt to good like god my sun dis gold is all my riches that cannot be replace an suddenly me cannot fine him in dis place before dis good god face to face wha good fe god. no god. wha good. wha god. no god if good Mark have no face to face dis god inside dis good god place on the eleventh day after dead [Silence] on the twelfth day after yr debt - o pickney - it is as if me cyaaan wake up Time has been drain from all my clocks. the sky is overcyas & lock altho it isn’t rainin yet [Silence] this night we hold our wake. watch w/ the spirit of my sum before his daily funeral .people cook food bring bread & drink & there’s some singing of the old traditions by the older folks & country citizens but they soon fall to arguing and they soon fall down to quarrellin about the words the phrases time & tempo of these sookey tunes if seem they isolated in the old traditions in these coffee hills W e are 3000 feet high up in the blue mountain of this Irish Town by three o’clock is gettin cold here in the midnight dew and all around me. even the young-ones watch me watch the faces of their coffin spirits growin old on the tired tireen(th) day after im det. we tek the body of my son & walk him from the chapel back up the hill-road pass Mass Dixon Lane to Bedward buryingrounn & seal him up & tomb im leave im dere My aunt husbann tell me later dat tree time Mark try fe mek dem put im down. de casket get so heavy de man-dem haffe change sides all de time to ress dem hands & many willin new ones haffe come fe help dem wid it im get so heavy heavy going to im grave tree time he try fe stagger dem go left. teach dem to veer down MasonDixonLane whe e grow up is all too sudden. Sonny. im want to ress a while from all dis pain an distrulation cause when im reach down-dey. im nevva soon-come-back again mi look back once onto the leaf. less barrem hillside where he is cyaaan even see no grief of flowers there . perhaps there are no flowers there on the fourteenth day after Mark gone. on the first day after him first entomb the rain staat fat rat raat  .  i stannin by the window like a window washin it An do you know what even as he lie there in the street that midnight widdout light.  skull crack.  neck broken.  trauma.  red red red de passerby-dem Marley sing about - de woman son shoot down into the street & dead ? - dem tief-off evva thing they fine pun Mark So when he went down to the policestation morgue that night my son mange up widdout im shoes & shocks? on the fourteenth day after my sun gone.  on the first day after him first entomb i feel my womb seal-up. de blood brek-down inside me bellybottom [day 15] i wonder wha appen to im bicycle? i wonder whe um is? [day 16] we know ‘widow’ an i hear of ‘widower’ i wonder what dem call a woman lose she sun? tief too dat too me reckon again i sit here in this chair trying to unravel Time so that it wouldn’t happen [day 17] Death keep gettin-away & gettin-away & gettin in the way coilin inside dis house like serpent(s) into its dark corners when we turn to face dem eatin away the cupboards of our soul above the stove an thru the drains an down in. to the cellar w/its term -ites. torm -ites tunnel & un. dermine the very grounn we walk on. how we make love. destroye the very irie way we dance they was nvr a chance really that we wd avoid this. clingin to each others bodies. holdin hands. and climb -in to our souls. feelin the grief like an electric wire shudder thru our clothes around our ribs where Adam make us. veins our gutteries. our lonely bones this we have nvr plan to be away from love like this opening these doors one after one one after one sweeping this dust these ashes from the floor of sorrow bowed head. the one step one step sweeping out today today and down the passage of tomorrow & tomorrow & tomorrow into the distance of what must be the future but no more no more each time i turn into the kitchen. head down towards the sink of chores. lookin a spoon fe wash. fe tea to brew. fe soup to scoup fe bread fe fat & fry. is you is you is you. keep comin back. cockroaches of these curses flickerin up the pipes & plumbin. lickerin the wet surface w/ they lean thumb -nail tongue. the lard oil ori -faces washin back yr face. these grey green oil -(y) fissures that yu cannot clean as if we cover up in soares & sin. as if we do some -body some -thin wrong. as if we do some. body in & spit out syllables like the split stringy ends of bonavista peas spit out the white bright taste of salt into this dry lagoon as if this is the saviour this the recompence. this is the penalty we play for ‘coming from no whe’ for ‘being poor’ the rat patrol keep rattin pass my door and now there is this white night blind -ness in my eyes for all the years that are no tears to tell. because there are no years no no more years fe yell for you in this - this - ‘new emergency’ - the blood my heart the broken body wringing in my belly like a ghost my baby like a bell of bone . mi wunda whe e doin now . mi wunda whe Mark gone [day 18] Sometime in the miggle of the mornin of the night i remember that this day is the day when my urban barn some undread toussann years ago  <<<< an as the custom/as the kind. ness is. yu muss xpec re. spec. the day shd be acknowledge/celebrated/be re. rembered. don’t? But in the miggle of this grief. all this slow daze of grease. these sleep. less nights. this fear now every sound each startle shadow nigh(t) it might be him/my love impale<<<< w/in his pain impassion wounds - why me why me. wha mek me fraid & frighten ee? - all I cd do is walk across the moon an kiss-im pun im broken cheek my eyes elsewhe & >>>>> hissin not for him today. mi like me cyaan help whe me travellin-mi-travellin an wish im Appy Birthday< on the nineteen day afta my husbann gone - it seem so long it seem mi fatha now altho I nvr kno no fatha - my husbann gone back to the States to finish up im work - few nights ago he try to touch me. wake me up. yu know as if dat comfort? dat wd help . . . ah well . . . he had his 10 years time of salt already an he went thru hell and now he marréd me the poor man like he have to wear my bell he nevva try to rush me. dough . . . e mean me mean me well . . . on the twentieff day after ee tief and the seventh after de burial i go lookin for my sun in all his glory Somethin inside my shake & rackkle heart. along my ripple spine agroin/agroan my nipple guts. w/in the bleedin womb whe he did born whe he intomb something inside here tell me there will be no rest no rest no rest no rest no rest no rest - can be no rest - until I find him - these rock dry-rivva courses - an bring im justice back w/me in true becau im nvva born to blue nor no slow horses 21 SpaceTime stann still As still as if it didn’t happen Tho it is 21 days now & she Nkuuyu is still travellin still travellin in the underworld To find her sun & bring him back kalunga on this earth. That’s where she is That’s why she is so far away That’s why you know she can’t leave Kingston at this time to go back w/her husbann to the U nighted States Valhalla & the kingdooms of this world whe they in love might live who knows for. ever For she must find him She will find him They will talk Might take a long long time. but she will come to understand if she can find him find him find him She will accept Perhaps Because she see him like alive again Whole Fit & Beautiful again and he will find her eyes & call her Name again - Beverley Miss Mama Bev Miss Bev And she at last begins to Terrible & bleedin troubleous in pain Such blessed water after such long drought & shining silence after such long doubt And call him back im name & call him Mark again & Light & Love & take him back & born him - O Mama - Mark - O Mama - This xchanging is the healing nvr ever healing But she try He try. Name on Name on Mama. Mark on Mark. So she can hold him now w/in her arms again Protect that neck that nvr shd be broken. That head that nvr shd be crush. so Hush she will rock him Hush she will rock him to sleep And it is almost over Now she will try to bring him back back to the world up -inside down. down inside black to the world they have lost of the sun -light & ‘real’ Rock in her cradle of arms of all she can give to the world. beyond all these harms & their fissures & failures Sleeping for all ages is when they almost there - door corridor crossroad gateway threshold - the light becoming stronger - less stranger less stranger - almost sounds almost taking shape. the street. the trees. a building. stone. a chirping bird. turtledoves of green . . . That he awake into this his second sudden terror His visor of this otherWorld. mask off. the new faces on. eras from like beginning coming to this end. Skull of his breath. Wind colouring itself the long way wrong way wrong way wrong way wrong. the soundless horror of his wounds like the wild white of my eyes first seeing it. then something in side in. side me going red & swimming i in black. the uttar lamentation of this broken blank Look he transforms before her by the doorway into broken fish & pisces. torn from his roots & gender. into this common sound. from all he almost is into what suddenly can nvr be. this stripp & vivid unconstructed verb. constricted. In all his cinnamon & dis. assemble parts. His black crown crush. recrush. Th(e) vase neck break. rebroeken. The cruel eye of his assassin in trauma in his lockets Jesus my Revelator Injustice as e dead hit from behine to this afflictuated future. an nvr even kno it. Each bless of him the salted water i now drink. His white flesh broken to this flesh my red i cannot eat No No No No in carne criminate I do not want to see it! there is a howling she can hear she does not understand is here is hers. like she is hearing in her own ears howling wolf long canine knives & clanking richter rackets Like all his blood is floating down her cistern of his wounds are blessed rain this sound w/in her falling ears this taste w/in her mouth like she is givin birth to menance memory - his past somehow his tirelesslessness & somehow now - his future some. where in this past where they are bound in what is almost sound in what is almost light & outline - w/in the shadows near the door where they shd pass so they might live - together - as it was before - as it will be. be.fore - is what the sound is saying - giving birth to light - her sun - her son - her cinema - the death that is in him is him becoming death that was-in-him was him. un. coming him - the death that will be him becoming bourne & being born now in this nommonation of these howls so near the ‘real’ & stranger raiding world now gettin louder gettin clearer gettin warmer so blinding her now so she can’t see him anymore tho she still has the howling in her - and somewhere deep inside her bowels now the sleepin rock. im cradle her familiar spirit arms - the womb of his death now safely wounded in her - sun become father - genitor - an almost newborn born & burn. ing in her - one is one & so always w/in him w/in her in her- learning himself again to live w/in in her wounds So that at last possibl - even if unbearable to bear - but bearing - still bearing and at least & at last no(w) possibl - what yesterday was impossibl - a pathway no possibl - no(w) possibl - she leaving him new at this door at this threshold this light of forever w/in her. bearing down

A few light flakes of snow Fall in the feeble sun; Birds sing in the cold, A warbler by the wall. The plum Buds tight and chill soon bloom. The moon begins first Fourth, a faint slice west At nightfall. Jupiter half-way High at the end of night- Meditation. The dove cry Twangs like a bow. At dawn Mt. Hiei dusted white On top; in the clear air Folds of all the gullied green Hills around the town are sharp, Breath stings. Beneath the roofs Of frosty houses Lovers part, from tangle warm Of gentle bodies under quilt And crack the icy water to the face And wake and feed the children And grandchildren that they love.

I like how the mallard ducklings goofy and weak waddle up the cement incline then slide into this runoff of lawn sprinklers and car washes and how the great blue heron seems to be teleported here from the Jurassic to look for extinct species of fish but mostly I like the way the little birds fly in and out of the barbed wire with only a smear of water to keep them singing.

Hence loathed Melancholy, Of Cerberus, and blackest Midnight born, In Stygian cave forlorn, 'Mongst horrid shapes, and shrieks, and sights unholy; Find out some uncouth cell, Where brooding Darkness spreads his jealous wings, And the night-raven sings; There under ebon shades, and low-brow'd rocks, As ragged as thy locks, In dark Cimmerian desert ever dwell. But come thou goddess fair and free, In heav'n yclep'd Euphrosyne, And by men, heart-easing Mirth, Whom lovely Venus at a birth With two sister Graces more To Ivy-crowned Bacchus bore; Or whether (as some sager sing) The frolic wind that breathes the spring, Zephyr, with Aurora playing, As he met her once a-Maying, There on beds of violets blue, And fresh-blown roses wash'd in dew, Fill'd her with thee, a daughter fair, So buxom, blithe, and debonair. Haste thee nymph, and bring with thee Jest and youthful Jollity, Quips and cranks, and wanton wiles, Nods, and becks, and wreathed smiles, Such as hang on Hebe's cheek, And love to live in dimple sleek; Sport that wrinkled Care derides, And Laughter holding both his sides. Come, and trip it as ye go On the light fantastic toe, And in thy right hand lead with thee, The mountain-nymph, sweet Liberty; And if I give thee honour due, Mirth, admit me of thy crew To live with her, and live with thee, In unreproved pleasures free; To hear the lark begin his flight, And singing startle the dull night, From his watch-tower in the skies, Till the dappled dawn doth rise; Then to come in spite of sorrow, And at my window bid good-morrow, Through the sweet-briar, or the vine, Or the twisted eglantine; While the cock with lively din, Scatters the rear of darkness thin, And to the stack, or the barn door, Stoutly struts his dames before; Oft list'ning how the hounds and horn Cheerly rouse the slumb'ring morn, From the side of some hoar hill, Through the high wood echoing shrill. Sometime walking, not unseen, By hedge-row elms, on hillocks green, Right against the eastern gate, Where the great Sun begins his state, Rob'd in flames, and amber light, The clouds in thousand liveries dight. While the ploughman near at hand, Whistles o'er the furrow'd land, And the milkmaid singeth blithe, And the mower whets his scythe, And every shepherd tells his tale Under the hawthorn in the dale. Straight mine eye hath caught new pleasures Whilst the landskip round it measures, Russet lawns, and fallows gray, Where the nibbling flocks do stray; Mountains on whose barren breast The labouring clouds do often rest; Meadows trim with daisies pied, Shallow brooks, and rivers wide. Towers, and battlements it sees Bosom'd high in tufted trees, Where perhaps some beauty lies, The cynosure of neighbouring eyes. Hard by, a cottage chimney smokes, From betwixt two aged oaks, Where Corydon and Thyrsis met, Are at their savoury dinner set Of herbs, and other country messes, Which the neat-handed Phyllis dresses; And then in haste her bow'r she leaves, With Thestylis to bind the sheaves; Or if the earlier season lead To the tann'd haycock in the mead. Sometimes with secure delight The upland hamlets will invite, When the merry bells ring round, And the jocund rebecks sound To many a youth, and many a maid, Dancing in the chequer'd shade; And young and old come forth to play On a sunshine holiday, Till the live-long daylight fail; Then to the spicy nut-brown ale, With stories told of many a feat, How Faery Mab the junkets eat, She was pinch'd and pull'd she said, And he by friar's lanthorn led, Tells how the drudging goblin sweat, To earn his cream-bowl duly set, When in one night, ere glimpse of morn, His shadowy flail hath thresh'd the corn That ten day-labourers could not end; Then lies him down, the lubber fiend, And stretch'd out all the chimney's length, Basks at the fire his hairy strength; And crop-full out of doors he flings, Ere the first cock his matin rings. Thus done the tales, to bed they creep, By whispering winds soon lull'd asleep. Tower'd cities please us then, And the busy hum of men, Where throngs of knights and barons bold, In weeds of peace high triumphs hold, With store of ladies, whose bright eyes Rain influence, and judge the prize Of wit, or arms, while both contend To win her grace, whom all commend. There let Hymen oft appear In saffron robe, with taper clear, And pomp, and feast, and revelry, With mask, and antique pageantry; Such sights as youthful poets dream On summer eves by haunted stream. Then to the well-trod stage anon, If Jonson's learned sock be on, Or sweetest Shakespeare, Fancy's child, Warble his native wood-notes wild. And ever against eating cares, Lap me in soft Lydian airs, Married to immortal verse, Such as the meeting soul may pierce In notes with many a winding bout Of linked sweetness long drawn out, With wanton heed, and giddy cunning, The melting voice through mazes running, Untwisting all the chains that tie The hidden soul of harmony; That Orpheus' self may heave his head From golden slumber on a bed Of heap'd Elysian flow'rs, and hear Such strains as would have won the ear Of Pluto, to have quite set free His half-regain'd Eurydice. These delights if thou canst give, Mirth, with thee I mean to live.

Is it because your sable hair Is folded over brows that wear At times a too imperial air; Or is it that the thoughts which rise In those dark orbs do seek disguise Beneath the lids of Eastern eyes; That choose whatever pose or place May chance to please, in you I trace The noblest women of your race? The crowd is sauntering at its ease, And humming like a hive of bees— You take your seat and touch the keys. I do not hear the giddy throng; The sea avenges Israel’s wrong, And on the wind floats Miriam’s song! You join me with a stately grace; Music to Poesy gives place; Some grand emotion lights your face. At once I stand by Mizpeh’s walls; With smiles the martyred daughter falls, And desolate are Mizpeh’s halls! Intrusive babblers come between; With calm, pale brow and lofty mien, You thread the circle like a queen! Then sweeps the royal Esther by; The deep devotion in her eye Is looking “If I die, I die!” You stroll the garden’s flowery walks; The plants to me are grainless stalks, And Ruth to old Naomi talks. Adopted child of Judah’s creed, Like Judah’s daughters, true at need, I see you mid the alien seed. I watch afar the gleaner sweet; I wake like Boaz in the wheat, And find you lying at my feet! My feet! Oh! if the spell that lures My heart through all these dreams endures, How soon shall I be stretched at yours!

¿Cómo es posible que me llamen extranjero?* A large plastic bag will keep you dry during the heavy rain storms. In Tapachula, you have a safe place to rest; ** it might be your last chance to call home. You know there are killers and thieves who are setting their traps along the way, and when you are riding on top of it, watch for the wasps living in the trees. Don’t fall asleep inside it—you might disappear. If you are exhausted, jump off and rest. Follow its tracks until you feel it returning. The faster it advances, the stronger its pull is. Don't be fooled—at first it will lure you in with its steady prowess, but it can slit a leg off or two, so don't be fooled by its hum. If you jump off, don't just stand there. And don't run beside its belly either— No, run away from the pounding. Run like a ceiling is falling, like people are falling on you. As for routes, go through Matamoros for getting into Texas, and for California, get to Tijuana, but if you cross Nogales into Arizona, be very careful. You will find discarded shoes and gutted suitcases in fields. There are graveyards without names. No one carries an ID. For others and you, we give offerings to our clandestino priest who was killed during the Cristero War. *** Always watch out for the white vans—they are full of policemen. They drive very slow. It takes up to six days to cross the desert. Always carry plenty of water. Ranchers carry guns. Everything has thorns. At first sight, think twice before trusting even a good omen.

i Dear A. — Nailing crockery to the walls was not something I ever understood, but Simonetta’s maiolica falls, like this sideboard, painted wood, under the enchantment of a freehand look — a curling script, a loose grape tendril, the forms that hecatomb smoke took purling to a Roman god’s nostril    ... Because geranium is crinkled in the spillage from the wishing well, now outdated and backfilled, this whole place evinces the nature of a souvenir plate. Another tell: the mosquito flourish in its signature. ii The rustic bicycle, like a pen that spent its ink, wrote an invisible sentence to the ramparts and back, now and again rolling through the arches of an aqueduct dowsing with its sixth sense across the hillsides. Locals tucked plastic water bottles under spouts chiseled into lions’ pouts stationed at intervals, like shrines. Their cars idled while they stooped, and on Sundays even formed lines. They trust this water more, Lorenzo whooped, than what comes out of their taps? The sources snake beneath the maps. iii The little terrier Amore, they warned me, had eaten the seat belts; so there I was, my friend, fearing whiplash in the back seat (no headrest either!), in all respects afloat — Simonetta on alert for signs of gallantry, like the wives of those diminished Casanovas who dream they’ve merely grown discreet. And the dissertation she once wrote on courtesan-poetesses, fancying herself of that ilk (“Like me!” — a phrase she’d strew among her compliments) gathers dust on a shelf. When I think of Boccherini’s metacarpals interred beneath the soppressata marbles of the duomo, I think:Casa del Diavolo. Those two.

O quam te memorem virgo ... Stand on the highest pavement of the stair— Lean on a garden urn— Weave, weave the sunlight in your hair— Clasp your flowers to you with a pained surprise— Fling them to the ground and turn With a fugitive resentment in your eyes: But weave, weave the sunlight in your hair. So I would have had him leave, So I would have had her stand and grieve, So he would have left As the soul leaves the body torn and bruised, As the mind deserts the body it has used. I should find Some way incomparably light and deft, Some way we both should understand, Simple and faithless as a smile and shake of the hand. She turned away, but with the autumn weather Compelled my imagination many days, Many days and many hours: Her hair over her arms and her arms full of flowers. And I wonder how they should have been together! I should have lost a gesture and a pose. Sometimes these cogitations still amaze The troubled midnight and the noon’s repose.

The people who live here do two things: their faces whiten past you or blacken into you. Girls are not supposed to come to islands by themselves; did no one tell you? You found the highest hill, away from their whistles, their eyes. Up here only windy grass, the blow of sea that brought you. Only a few cigarette butts, pistachio shells. They come here, but hardly. The house you make is sticks and burrs. Dirt on white knuckles. The sea through the cracks. They do not talk to you anymore, or look at you, your first wish. The wind and sea are full of stomachs: now, learn to disappear into them. Your house’s slender frame catches fire one day. You hear them buzzing below. They watch, they stand, wild brightness from the hill reflecting in each eye. Light. Birds almost green among the sparks. Is it the sun? No, the moon has caught the sun in its mouth. The moon is nothing but the sun letting it see itself. The question comes again, do you have too much faith in people, or too little? Like when you were sitting on the ledge by the sea and three large boys’ shadows stubbed the grass. Your first thought was, so they will make me fall. But they don’t make you fall. Whether they are afraid of you or you of them, whether they are jeering, is not clear. This is the island with the hill with the house with the girl with the fire inside. Afterwards they climb to the top to look at something ruined close-up. They touch the door, soft with ash: the body, amongst the branches and birds, is white. The face catches the sun’s light.

The mouse hangs by its tail, & kitchen chairs stand still on their beaks. I left the eggs boiling on the stove, the iron hot. Everything is going up in flames. I don’t mind. I watch the children float like leaves while the plastic car sinks to the bottom of the tub. A steady beat within my diaphragm predicts the  next earthquake, records its rhythm in blood vessels until the walls collapse. I was once a boiled egg before I was this: chewed cuticles & orchids, ponytails & rapes. Somewhere in Texas, a crowd predicts my death. They say it will sound like the scream of a tuba being born.