IT WON’T LAST

I bleed by the black stream/ For my torn bough! —James Joyce, “Tilly”

Of a thing which could not be put back. Not be made right again. In the deep glens where they lived all things were older than man and they hummed of mystery.
—Cormac McCarthy (broadside, 2020, Suntup Editions)

He shall be cured when he shall forget his grievance and devote his divine gifts to the service of his own people. —Edmund Wilson, The Wound and the Bow

There is a very loud amusement park right in front of my present lodgings.
—Vladimir Nabokov, Pale Fire


I look down at myself. I’m bleeding but 
Can’t find the first wound, the wound

That won’t heal, the source of the blood. I look 
Up, find there’s no great battle happening out there.

No one’s pointing a weapon at me. I think of my 
Deli guys who are from Yemen originally. It’s Ramadan 

And Adam, Ali’s eldest, looked pale yesterday when 
I walked in to buy a pack of smokes. He was listening 

To a recording from the 50’s, a man’s crackling voice 
Singing the The Quran across decades. He wasn’t

Smoking as he normally does. I said it was beautiful 
Because it was beautiful and woeful. I asked what the man 

Was saying and Adam pulled out his phone because it was 
Too hard to translate but I really wanted to know. Google 

Translate told us something indecipherable about a 
Covenant. I thought about the word “covenant” then 

Asked how he was doing with the fasting. He said he was 
Hungry but that it felt good to be a little hungry, and smiled 

A kindly smile. I tried picturing myself as he was seeing me.
Then we dapped and said our goodbyes because a really thin 

Guy with two weeks of whiskers was waiting with 
A diminishing smile to buy something. Now I think of 

A podcast I heard about the war in Yemen. Adam’s cousins, 
His aunts, uncles, grandparents, half a million people there 

May die of starvation, a state of hunger I can’t really
Imagine. I think how a hundred thousand people have died 

Already, children Adam’s daughter’s age, mothers of
Families, young men with whiskers, middle-aged, slightly 

Lonely ladies, fathers with eyes that crinkle around the edges 
When they laugh, young women full of dreams. I wonder

About Ramadan and whether fasting is a different kind of
Covenant this year. Something Adam, Ali and Samira, Mo,

With his wonderful tendency to get a bit drunk and embarrass
Everyone by putting an arm around me so he can show me 

Every photo in his phone when I come in late at night, and
Moussa who can’t be out of high school and is so shy, 

Abraham, a handsome cousin of the family recently moved
From Chicago who said he wanted to take me to this island

Way off the coast of Yemen where there are dragon’s blood
Trees that can live a thousand years or more, this numinous, 

Exotic place full of endemic species, so I could see how holy,
How ravishing his homeland really is, something they can do 

For their people when there’s nothing else to do. I think:
How did I cut myself? This must be a clotting problem. I look 

Down at myself. I’m sitting in a stygian pool spreading in a
Lovely shape across my wood floor, the shame of the

Shame, as familiar and specific to me as my own 
Name. 

///

Snow lays thick where the shovels didn’t get it, clean 
Atop the trash and recycling, over a hundred years of 

Footsteps. I’m up at 4 a.m. A few people are still partying 
From yesterday. A siren wails its way uptown. The Xmas 

Lights glow a person into the room with me. An attentive 
Person, seated in the chair I’m refinishing, watching me sip 

Coffee from an old roommate’s blue mug. He appears and I’ve 
Already poured him coffee, into a mug from the set of dinnerware, 

White with green mosaic edges, my mother bought when our 
Family still had my father in it, before he revealed himself and 

Our family blew up like an atom in an atom smasher. I wonder, 
Briefly, if he knows about this. He takes a sip, whispers something 

Indiscernible to the potted basil, which perks right up. Outside 
They’re freestyling as they head home in the gorgeous pink 

Aurora. I think of the breadline which must already be forming 
Half a block away. To the apparition I think: Do you portend 

Some kind of mental break? Am I finally losing it? To the tree 
Across the street I think: What am I to you? I touch your skin 

With my rough eyes, whisper-count your rings. We may be the 
Only souls awake on this threshold of spring, raising our arms 

To dawn. The person, who’s old enough to be my father but 
Isn’t, smiles an effulgent smile that says: You’re slightly 

Ridiculous in your pajamas with your hair falling out of a 
Topknot, but I can love you. You need no longer yearn for 

Another companion. I’ll be here. I wonder: Will I be alone 
like this forever?

///

I amuse myself with alternative history, points of 
Divergence, the noise of a conjured reality. For 

Example: I’m very close with my father. He’s a great 
Guy, super thoughtful, not an angry bone in his body. 

Obliging bones. Blitzkrieg of a laugh. Gaze like the 
Beam of a lighthouse. Since he retired we hang out on 

Weekends, idle in the park, build things out of wood, 
Drive to state parks, hike up mountains, fish, pick wild 

Blueberries for my mother. He loves my mother so 
Much he loses his train of thought when he looks at 

Her, her aspect still bewildering, precious after all 
These years. Their way of loving taught me everything 

I need to know about being with other people, with 
Myself. When I was little and bad things happened, I 

Could go to him. He’d lay a warm hand on my head,
Understand everything. I felt protected and seen. My 

Dad thinks I’m doing great even though I’m still poor. 
He thinks the way the arts are undervalued in our society 

Is an outrage, has never once told me to get a real job, 
Helps me out when I can’t pay the bills. He likes my 

Husband, who’s also a great guy, and didn’t mind at all 
That we eloped. He found it very sensible we invested in 

A piece of land, and is only too happy lending a hand when 
We go up to work on the cabin. Without him saying so, I 

Know he’d be over the moon if we had a kid, or adopted a 
Kid, would just love being her grandpa, but at the very same 

Time understands completely, doesn’t mind a bit, if we decide
Not to have kids. He gets that an artist’s work is its own being, 

Which requires nurturing, time, all the things a kid needs. 
Now I’m getting older, I think about what it’ll be like 

Switching roles, becoming the person upon whom he can 
Rely, offering a steady arm as we take the stairs, placing

An understanding hand on his warm head, which is losing 
Some of its hair.  

///

I lose all my books in the fire so listen to podcasts 
Like it’s my job. Then, maybe to avoid the full 

Weight of current events, I watch more TV than 
Ever before. On my laptop, phone. In bed. On the 

Couch. In the bath. While cooking, eating, knitting, 
Dozing off. I find it comforting and also heartrending 

Falling in love with a lovable, tragic hero who’s not 
Real. I laugh when he announces the death of a beloved 

Colleague whose name he can’t remember. I cry when 
The woman he loves hares off to marry someone else. 

I carol when he solves the case. At no point does 
He judge me when I don’t shower for three days, 

Or bum me out, let me down, or leave me, even 
When I tell him things I never admit to boyfriends. 

Even when things really don’t look so good 
For him. 

///

A bell rings and everybody goes outside. Lights are 
Out as far as I can see. No one’s cell phone is 

Working. All engines and batteries have suddenly,
Finally died, their several arms folded like ended

Insects, peaceful and inert. Because it’s so dark we
Can more than see the milky white arc of stars spanning

The night like a spectral rainbow, we can make out its
Singing, a bright, an endless note just within human

Hearing, just an ancient door buzzer ringing and ringing us 
In, just the night opening and opening at a hushed

8 hertz. We look around amazed. We’re too moved 
To move. We’re speechless. The sound of the world, 

Of bugs, breath, hands holding, leaves being born, 
Birds dreaming, fish swimming, elephants, armadillos, 

Giraffes, water joining soil is ineffable. We’re too astonished 
To think of ourselves. Or we begin to think of ourselves as 

One thing, and this thing is so daedal and exquisite that 
We’re released from the dark integument of human shame. 

We can see beyond death, beyond the need for power, 
Meaning, and even love, beyond all humanness. And 

In this sort of absence we feel pretty great even though we 
Have no fucking clue what’s happening or why or whether 

It will last.