478 Identity poems

‘Thirty years ago. And only yesterday,’ says Balázs, slapping at a fly. We sit beside a bottle underneath his vines and watch the football arc between his sons. ‘Check through the corner one,’ the sergeant says, ‘and make it short and sweet. Take a couple of men.’ (Seventeen-year-olds still nervous with a gun.) It’s an office block like most down the derelict street; he keeps a good five metres ahead, tries the rooms along each corridor and beckons the two boys on. They reach the third floor, breathing easier now. The Council Chamber’s here, empty but for a tangle of chairs at the northern window end (unseemly three-day corpses, wooden legs in the air); dried into the floor – blood-stains; and seeping through the shattered panes the distant dialogue of cross-fire. Directly opposite him – another door. He notes the fact an instant before it opens sharply and his counterpart – the hated AVO uniform of green – levels his gun and time is not. They freeze. Somewhere beyond, the seconds slide away; between their eyes the slender lifeline holds across the mirror of air. ‘Döntetlen barátom azt hiszem’: Stalemate I think, my friend. Each slightly lowers his gun and slowly, eyes still locked, takes one step back. The two doors close together, softly as hands on a prayer. ‘Senki sincs ott,’ each says to his men: Nobody there. ‘In Hungary we used to say Néha a második alkalom jön először– sometimes the second chance comes first.’ He’s silent, years away. The day is insubstantial, seems to float in the dry gum-scented heat. Only the football’s thud, steady as the beat of some huge heart, holds us in time and space. He rouses himself to swear: ‘Az anyád, off the kohlrabi,rossz gyerekek,’ then pours us another beer. The head on each glass whispers small talk; we blow the froth into the air.

Ribs ripple skin Up to the nipples— Noah, equipped, knew Every one has two— This ark I am in Embarks my twin

What do we do when we hate our bodies? A good coat helps. Some know how to pull off a hat. And there are paints, lighting, knives, needles, various kinds of resignation, the laugh in the mirror, the lie of saying it doesn’t matter. There is also the company we keep: surgeons and dermatologists, faith healers and instruction-givers, tailors of cashmere and skin who send their bills for holding our shame-red hands, raw from the slipping rope, the same hands with which we tremble ever so slightly, holding novels in bed, concentrating on the organization of pain and joy we say is another mirror, a depth, a conjure in which we might meet someone who says touch me.

You must come to them sideways In rooms webbed in shadow, Sneak a view of their emptiness Without them catching A glimpse of you in return. The secret is, Even the empty bed is a burden to them, A pretense. They are more themselves keeping The company of a blank wall, The company of time and eternity Which, begging your pardon, Cast no image As they admire themselves in the mirror, While you stand to the side Pulling a hanky out To wipe your brow surreptitiously.

Alexandria, 1956, after the nationalization of the Suez Canal and all foreign capital Perhaps her cook, come under the influence Of a few discreet piastres, had spoken Too indiscreetly. Or just perhaps, On a hot day along the azure of the Mediterranean, Rue Fouad bearing a stream of traffic To Muhammed Ali Square in a riot Of klaxons and shouts, and the whole city Gleaming white as it must have from a distance, Perhaps on such a day, someone got lucky And Mme. Sperides at the customs house Could sense what price she would have to pay, That the official full of apologies And gold teeth would usher her into A private room smelling of dark tobacco, That under the drone of the ceiling fans Her valises would be searched, the linings Cut out, the cowhide ripped back, That despite her protests which would be Useless but obligatory, she herself Would be stripped, that finally, Two large diamonds worth a modest villa Would peek and shine from the elegant crack Of her ass. Whatever the story, It was not for a boy to know. I listened at my grandmother’s door As she spoke in a whisper, thieving A fragment here a word there naked Jewels   hidden you know where

The team behind Moana has taken great care to respect the cultures of the Pacific Islands that inspired the film, and we regret that the Maui costume has offended some. — Disney, Inc. someone will touch the Earth once, I wanted my own soil. tried to drown my ankles in myself. again. Daughter of Oceania wanting me home. my skin is sacred ground. always want to take a white girl's skin I cried so hard, until I became a boat I never want to be lost at high tide. Daughter of Ancestor's language tatted on my skin my skin what's mine more than an ocean floating above myself at sea open-mouthed Sun on my body. my story will breathe.

O, come erlong, come erlong, Wut’s de use er hol’in back; O, hit it strong, er hit it strong, Mek de ol’ flo’ ben’ an’ crack. O, hoop tee doo, uh, hoop tee doo! Dat’s de way ter knock it froo. Right erlong, right erlong, Slide de lef’ foot right erlong. Hoop tee doo, O, hoop tee doo, See, my lub, I dawnce ter you. Ho, boy! Ho, boy! Well done, meh lady! O, slide erlong, slide erlong— Fas’ah wid dat pattin’, Sam! Dar’s music in dis lef’ heel’s song, Mis’ah right foot, doan’ you sham! O, hoop tee doo, oh, hoop tee doo! Straight erlong I dawnce ter you. Slide erlong, slide erlong, Mek dat right foot hit it strong. Hoop tee do, O, hoop tee doo, See, my lub, I dawnce ter you. Ho, boy! Ho, boy! Well done, meh lady!

This high up, the face eroding; the red cedar slopes over. An accident chooses a stranger. Each rain unplugs roots which thin out like a hand. Above the river, heat lightning flicks silently and the sound holds, coiled in air. Some nights you are here dangling a Valpolicella bottle, staring down at the flat water that slides by with its mouth full of starlight. It is always quiet when we finish the wine. While you were a living man how many pictures were done of you. Serious as an angel, lacing up your boots. Ice blows into my fields.

Up the dog bounds to the window, baying like a basset his doleful, tearing sounds from the belly, as if mourning a dead king, and now he’s howling like a beagle – yips, brays, gagging growls – and scratching the sill paintless, that’s how much he’s missed you, the two of you, both of you, mother and daughter, my wife and child. All week he’s curled at my feet, warming himself and me watching more TV, or wandered the lonely rooms, my dog shadow, who like a poodle now hops, amped-up windup maniac yo-yo with matted curls and snot nose smearing the panes, having heard another car like yours taking its grinding turn down our block, or a school bus, or bird-squawk, that’s how much he’s missed you, good dog, companion dog, dog-of-all-types, most excellent dog I told you once and for all we should never get.

For Bernadette Mayer Just one more vintage movie, Batwings tonight at the Bal Masqué — Another creature stuffed By distinguished pedigree. I get a lot of madcap ideas about sentience, How knowing has you put down in the book Forbidden speech recognition — Else why make such a face? And now it’s luck no longer mouth that moves When fastidious rummage whispers To divulge a surplus A clue if not the key. Prospect my question laps up for good — I lean to it. Knowing you, First-person dwindle. Tweet-tweet. Prick.