Rita Dove

Elizabeth, The Lodge at Woodstock, 1554 Less than the charting of each dawn’s resolutions, less than each evening’s trickle of doubt, less than a crown’s weight in silver, a diamond’s scratch against glass, less than the touted ill luck of my rich beginnings—and yet more than Eve’s silence, my mute ingratitude. More than music’s safe passage, its rapturous net, more than this stockpile of words, their liquid solicitude; more desired than praise (the least-prized of my dreams), less real than dreaming (castle keep for my sins), more than no more, which seems much less than hoped-for, again— one mutiny, quelled; one wish lost, a forgotten treasure: to live without scrutiny, beyond constant measure.

Life's spell is so exquisite, everything conspires to break it. Emily Dickinson It wasn't bliss. What was bliss but the ordinary life? She'd spend hours in patter, moving through whole days touching, sniffing, tasting . . . exquisite housekeeping in a charmed world. And yet there was always more of the same, all that happiness, the aimless Being There. So she wandered for a while, bush to arbor, lingered to look through a pond's restive mirror. He was off cataloging the universe, probably, pretending he could organize what was clearly someone else's chaos. That's when she found the tree, the dark, crabbed branches bearing up such speechless bounty, she knew without being told this was forbidden. It wasn't a question of ownership— who could lay claim to such maddening perfection? And there was no voice in her head, no whispered intelligence lurking in the leaves—just an ache that grew until she knew she'd already lost everything except desire, the red heft of it warming her outstretched palm.

It's neither red nor sweet. It doesn't melt or turn over, break or harden, so it can't feel pain, yearning, regret. It doesn't have a tip to spin on, it isn't even shapely— just a thick clutch of muscle, lopsided, mute. Still, I feel it inside its cage sounding a dull tattoo: I want, I want— but I can't open it: there's no key. I can't wear it on my sleeve, or tell you from the bottom of it how I feel. Here, it's all yours, now— but you'll have to take me, too.

Nothing nastier than a white person! She mutters as she irons alterations in the backroom of Charlotte’s Dress Shoppe. The steam rising from a cranberry wool comes alive with perspiration and stale Evening of Paris. Swamp she born from, swamp she swallow, swamp she got to sink again.

It seems I have always sat here watching men like you — who turn heads, whose gaze is always either a kiss or a slap or the whiplash of pure disregard. Why fret? All you’re doing is walking. You’re this year’s It, the one righteous integer of cool cruising down a great-lipped channel of hushed adoration, women turned girls again, brightening in spite of themselves. That brave, wilting smile — you don’t see it, do you? How she tells herself to move on; blinks until she can.

She knew what she was and so was capable of anything anyone could imagine. She loved what she was, there for the taking, imagine. She imagined nothing. She loved nothing more than what she had, which was enough for her, which was more than any man could handle.

After all, there’s no need to say anything at first. An orange, peeled and quartered, flares like a tulip on a wedgewood plate Anything can happen. Outside the sun has rolled up her rugs and night strewn salt across the sky. My heart is humming a tune I haven’t heard in years! Quiet’s cool flesh— let’s sniff and eat it. There are ways to make of the moment a topiary so the pleasure’s in walking through.

I was four in this photograph fishing with my grandparents at a lake in Michigan. My brother squats in poison ivy. His Davy Crockett cap sits squared on his head so the raccoon tail flounces down the back of his sailor suit. My grandfather sits to the far right in a folding chair, and I know his left hand is on the tobacco in his pants pocket because I used to wrap it for him every Christmas. Grandmother's hips bulge from the brush, she's leaning into the ice chest, sun through the trees printing her dress with soft luminous paws. I am staring jealously at my brother; the day before he rode his first horse, alone. I was strapped in a basket behind my grandfather. He smelled of lemons. He's died— but I remember his hands.

Every day a wilderness—no shade in sight. Beulah patient among knicknacks, the solarium a rage of light, a grainstorm as her gray cloth brings dark wood to life. Under her hand scrolls and crests gleam darker still. What was his name, that silly boy at the fair with the rifle booth? And his kiss and the clear bowl with one bright fish, rippling wound! Not Michael— something finer. Each dust stroke a deep breath and the canary in bloom. Wavery memory: home from a dance, the front door blown open and the parlor in snow, she rushed the bowl to the stove, watched as the locket of ice dissolved and he swam free. That was years before Father gave her up with her name, years before her name grew to mean Promise, then Desert-in-Peace. Long before the shadow and sun’s accomplice, the tree. Maurice.

Every day a wilderness—no shade in sight. Beulah patient among knickknacks, the solarium a rage of light, a grainstorm as her gray cloth brings dark wood to life. Under her hand scrolls and crests gleam darker still. What was his name, that silly boy at the fair with the rifle booth? And his kiss and the clear bowl with one bright fish, rippling wound! Not Michael— something finer. Each dust stroke a deep breath and the canary in bloom. Wavery memory: home from a dance, the front door blown open and the parlor in snow, she rushed the bowl to the stove, watched as the locket of ice dissolved and he swam free. That was years before Father gave her up with her name, years before her name grew to mean Promise, then Desert-in-Peace. Long before the shadow and sun’s accomplice, the tree. Maurice. November 1981