How does fear escape
from under quivering eyelids?
Akhmatova didn’t write Requiem
to be swallowed whole
not in the throat
not in the chest
not in the gut
but in the lap
so i leave the book open
Garden of springing water,
cowries,
arcs of nautilus and oyster
“It’s yours if you want it.
I give it to you
as a gift
from my ancestors.
But first a question:
How old
is this green-checkered
costume of mine?”
Looking closely,
guessing:
“New.”
“Oh no! Then you cannot have
this ancient iridescent garden.”
I leave through a window,
into the backyard
bordering the mire
into the deep cold
bog water,
darker and older
than his garden
Night journaling
stirs me awake
as lines emerge
that familiar itching
under my shirt
hoisting hay bales
onto the
elevator
the two-legged stepping
of the erect stallion
mounting the mare
the twitching of their skin
when bitten by gadflies
peaceful hot
summer noons
standing in lazy pairs
swishing their tails
at each other’s faces
the rich smell
of their breath
and bodies
feeding them hay
my body remembers
In a single-engine Piper
beside Fred, both asleep
over the vast plains,
the seasonal migration
of wildebeest and zebra
slowly surging
beneath the wing
the engine coughs
and stops
"oh, I forgot to switch to the second tank"
My repeated tears
collected by
my grandfather,
filling a small
silver cup
my drenched face
his white hair
as we sit
on the soft carpet
—let’s make cosmetics
for a forest nymph, he said
add a pinch of anthill
while thunder rolls
stir with moonbeams
letting it steep
in a bowl of amanita
When I came into the world
there were no special signs
no double rainbows
showers of flowers
or conch shells
sounding in dreams
only a small listing
in a local paper:
a son
headlines:
Cold War nuclear tensions
and la dolce vita
my mother’s body
an overcast November
afternoon, 1958
Long, bumpy ride
across the dusty savannah,
pausing in Fort Ikoma
a cool wind through acacias,
we drink Dodoma red
with the bouquet
of a charging rhino
The open fire,
a large sooty
aluminium kettle
among the burning logs
in the lowland
rainforest of Ucayali,
Don Rosendo
boiling ayahuasca
the kettle shifts
as logs burn thin
golden brew
spilling into the dust
no pasó nada, he says
Who would have thought
seashells on a black mineral beach
could be stars in the heavens?
How did you do it?
It was all made up
long ago,
and I live inside it
each day
without remembering
Seven years old,
I scraped a tiny golden leaf
from the Buddha at the temple
hid it in my pocket,
in a treasure box
beside a sapphire and an opal
back in the house I couldn’t resist
showing my father
the next day we returned
to Wat Pho
my father took me back
to the abbot
he only smiled
Leaving the house
father forgets his briefcase
I drive him full speed to the airport
the six-seat aircraft already taking off
into a low black stormcloud wall
after the storm
we found the pieces of the wreck
no survivors
I find grandfather painting
the low stone walls and juniper
on the high rounded cliff
—if you want this,
you can have it all, he says.
Feral cats hiding
we tried to feed them
hissing, screeching
then one after another
dad shot them
Gently approaching
the cow
anxiously eyeing us
her newborn calf
bawling loudly
as I catch and hold it
Friede’s tagging pliers jamming
and his family watching
from the four-wheeler
I lose balance
falling sideways
releasing the calf
the cow snorts
head low
kicking dust
charges
again
a hoof stepping
on my ribcage
as I roll away
Once there was
a very small boy
a baby
in my mother’s arms,
reaching for the breast
later, following
in my father’s footsteps,
I set out
and so I came
to a great forest
where no one lived
then the money ran out
searching under
the sky
I went astray
years later
I returned
my father still alive
when he died
he left me
more than enough
I tried to hold it,
but it did not stay
after that,
my hands closed
again
I went to the forest
I came to a gate
in a mountain
with a sign:
Welcome
but I did not reach
the handle
it opened
from within—
a glinting cascade