Everything then
went vertical,
cramped up and down,
unit-living. When Aunty Pandy struck
why, we just couldn’t———
I remember those little shops,
to be with you again, to drink tea and talk for hours,
low ceilings, greasy cutlery, threadbare carpets.
I remember how hard I tried not to look at you.
Looked instead, at the bones in the hands of the server,
only later, into your eyes. Abigail.
And now—
I remember fresh crisp Autumn air.
Within Perimeter,
outside Rentalsman,
on the appointed hour,
we are allowed to harvest rain
and test for burns.
Missing you, X
Bartholomew
As intercepted by the Investigator:
Migrant Camp #3
Dear Bartholomew,
Do you ever miss the taste of blackberries?
We camped out that night in X——
Mid-range hotel, you recited every poem you knew,
your fingers lifted a length of my hair, lips whispering,
Blackberry blackberry.
Yes, my lovely long absent B.
That night in X, your words like wallpaper
standing naked before me, back to the mirror,
afternoon light: Zukofsky’s flowers, Pessoa’s disquiet.
Library, you told me, miming, your hands in the air
the shape of an old hard-bound book.
We counted syllables together.
Our eyes closed,
we saw the earth, then, as green——
I still haven’t given up hope
A funny thing. Feathers and so on.
Night groans with memory.
Once you were as a boy with me and I—
Without you, the night is no friend.
Love, Abigail
As Misdirected, holding zone, Outside Perimeter
Dear Abigail,
Yesterday, down by the river——they have us now in work gangs.
Or, was the place, oceanside,
that Pacifica, harbours closed,
Harbourmaster imprisoned, any number of containers,
bleached, migrant communities,
militia not bothering, small shack where once the fishers,
I saw a group of men and women,
fingers on a scarred concrete table,
gesture as if writing, heads bent, swaying left to right—Come, Bramah, they chanted—
Around the dock, faded in grey, pallets, skeps of straw, gasoline soaked.
No one with a match.
A woman threw a bouquet of dried grasses,
she said, There are no Beggar Boys left here
to remember the names, to call the chants
to bring the spell, to unlock the gate.
Come Bramah.
I hope to see you again, Abigail.
(If this reaches you, pay the courier well
his looks I fear, his intentions I doubt).
As ever, I am yours,
Bartholomew
As confiscated by the Investigator:
Migrant Camp #8
Dear Bartholomew,
Today would have been your birthday. I feel sure of it.
I haven’t heard from you in so long but still wanted to write.
Again how strange the workings of Consortium.
To still get mail!
I wanted to write words my aunty taught,
from memory. Or, what we learned in that philosopher’s book
gold and green, seen up on the highest shelf
stolen goods stacked in the Militia House:
I will write here on foolscap,
gift from, well, yes, there, I must say it, a guard.
He tells me my hair reminds him of a blue-black night.
Happy Birthday darling:
as though everyone served
as though illusion that death
as though all the books before
as though all these melodies
all this stored Time————
Love, A.
Locator: Unknown
Status: Intercepted
Dear Abigail,
In the church at Aleppo, machines cut
all their paintings. Let this letter be sealed.
Al-Shabab! Bring copper or iron.
Not authentic. Check online while e-pulses
still available. Everyone’s private generator.
And to Pacifica, then we came—shipped.
Containers: ocean-going, from Japan.
Separate, corrected for, spherical
Apocope, the name of our familiar
treasured. Rejected by most authorities—
authenticity, doubtful. Hidden, unknown, spurious
happiness, fleeting, amid fear to find
talismans, ankh, tablet, pocket treasures.
Such omissions spoke to us of rhythms
loss borne in the cut of—
Each letter of each word, the peeled core
Inside, were syllables
with each month, less able to speak
only here, alone while paper and pen
still given
angled, language found its way,
outside, to inner compartments.
Your coal-black hair, your glossy brown skin.
X, Bartholomew
As held by the Investigator, three letters:
Migrant Camp #3
Dear Bartholomew,
Yes. I am pretending everything did not happen.
I woke up humming:
Find our old Aunty, she’ll give you a clue
This way, Abby-ji, for your Bartholomew!
Before is also a Place. I’ve lost count of catastrophe.
Our town lies dying in disarray,
infrastructure decayed.
Buildings sink, tilting and torn.
Ceilings sag.
Power lines, downed. Roads buckled and split.
Sidewalks caved. No central heating anymore.
We haul polluted water, metered out from the river,
armed guards keep watch.
Myriad DIY and clandestine operations flourish halfway up the hills.
Water purification is busy business.
Those townspeople who figure out a way to purify the filthy water
charge exorbitant fees for tiny amounts and we do drink these.
City trees, hoarded, chopped for firewood.
Consortium decreed all of us:
A Workers’ Brigade of women
yet still we weep streetside, feet bandaged in rags or barefoot,
each time a mother root ripped—
Loving you always, Abigail
Dear B.,
Nights I chronicle.
Days I survive.
Confession: so lonely my limbs they find strangers,
or imagine, fingers——
River women provide a brisk trade:
expired contraceptives and balms,
pots and jugs of wax, rancid butter, too:
for bruises.
Just like those women of the Wishing Well. Ha!
All services, from medical to electric
hook onto one grid, Consortium-controlled.
Set hours, on a charge basis.
Conscripted, doctors, nurses.
Everyone trades, barters, sells,
cheats, lies, steals, hoards.
We’ve our bodies and remembered skills.
They keep the sick and the infirm outside, too.
Not the aunties, though. And a few Old-Timers.
Resilient! Thrifty, they sew, darn with needle and thread,
Flour or whisky made from anything!
There’s a brigade of them called Patch ’n Mend:
my
paper and pencil suppliers, running out, of course.
Last winter, Aunty Pandy hit us hard, surging———
I did miss you, then.
I am resolved to write,
no matter what happens.
Inscription tools and surface material:
I think about these a lot.
Dear Bartholomew,
——limited electric-hours, rationed,
my pass digital, Consortium-approved.
Barter! Radio and TV, broadcasts twice daily.
Weather reports best from the Patch ’n Mends:
each morning we go outside,
sniff the wind, test direction,
check for Burning Rain marks.
No one wears masks.
A few homes still stand Outside Perimeter,
usually rented:
here we barter, sell, cadge phone calls, pick up mail:
the phone lines, totally Consortium-controlled.
I’ve not seen a cellphone in ages——
Mail is often hand-delivered,
tower to tower and takes months, even years.
Today, at the Fifth Gate, those Guards, their room
where we all sign in, Consortium-approved,
my eyes alight on a shelf of books, then
quick, sweat on my wet forehead, I looked down
my gaze on the gun, propped against the wall.
Each night up at the Wishing Well we hear:
Mind you never make eye contact,
Them’s the ones that want in return:
favours——and then the old ones laugh and cough.
I am forever yours, A.
Locator: Detention Centre C
In the year of the reign, 20XX
Video Surveillance Monitor Status: On
Dear Bartholomew,
Third Trimester Dream:
pleasure an intensity to find, break
midway, between carpels, separating,
gynoecium silk tissue gampi and
thirty thousand bees
waxed.
Locator: Detention Centre C
In the year of the reign, 20XX
Video Surveillance Monitor Status: On
Dear Bartholomew,
I love when my ways find me,
Do you remember Aunty Agatha——
those long summer days when seasons were true,
seated across from dusty migrants, weaving,
We must meet for sixty-four afternoons,
at eight p.m. precisely, each Thursday.
This were the first catastrophe, I think.
Set testament down, she instructed.
And we, all dutiful:
Listen, there will be fear-gods everywhere.
Do you remember her small strong brown hands——
nails short, square, vestiges of pink paint, smoothed
paper squares brought in on her way, ordered,
off-white, neutral pH tissue:
Overlay the story, interweave parts, she said.
We all nodded, pretending to understand.
Perfect for mending, she laughed, her voice hoarse.
We sat side by side and did not wear masks.
At night, hands on my belly, her words speak,
Consortium-approved; midwives just laugh.
I will write to you in any way I can,
your loving Abigail
Locator: Unknown
Status: Intercepted
Dear Abigail,
—from the edge of the encampment known here as—
Doctors recruited, worked to death, or shot anyway.
A woman said to me:
Yes, after he paid her for sex the second or third time,
he, under kidnap, famous, others called him a great writer
Je n’aurais rien à regretter
The children of the camp sing, Been so long.
At dawn, sweepers chant, Jump the fence.
They speak it real soft and slow, brush, sweep, brush.
At noon, during inspection, the children
call out, voices parched from lack of water:
Hey Barth-o-low-mew
Hey, You Haven’t Got a Clue!
I smile at them with their French, Cantonese and Gujarati.
You would love them all.
There’s an old aunty here, wizened, stooped low
smooth brown skin though. Sparkling eyes, she laughs, slant,
turns my palm upright, slowly shakes her head.
If you send word, she’ll know where to find me.
Tomorrow they transport us, the next camp
infiltrators tell me, Cy-Board #6, tracked.
Past midnight, echoes linger,
Un coup de dés, jamais, jamais
And I agree.
I am writing to you always and a day,
no matter what,
I am yours,
X. Bartholomew
From Migrant Camps to the Stone Marker
As Recounted by the Sole Woman Survivor, Migrant Camp #3
They made me get rid of my red tattoo.
This is what it said:
(translated from the Gujarati)
Those things that sought the light:
I threw them into a bin of darkness
ગુજરાતી લિપિ
I bartered food for this Tale:
The last place you’d want to go is here: Run!
Our Grotto, shrine ransacked, icons strewn, gold
And knew no other place to turn, corners
On your knees, they will open your lips: talk.
In Paris, that printmaker of Baghdad
Those brigade boys chanting, out of sight, mind
Blanket to blanket they slept under signs
The Road to Ahmedabad, buses filled
Historical, a method: tied, placed, set
Blank Time, that terrifying space, between
And headed to the old cemetery—
Perimeter, City Centre, rubble
They’ll gouge her eyes, that far shore, windy beach
Woman alone at the end of the world.
We called her Abigail.
As Heard around the Migrants’ Campfire
They say she arrived at the sound of the Beggar Boy chants:
right as rain
good as new
c’mon Bramah, give us a clue!
Huddled corners full, those child conscripts kneel.
At first light, their small brown fingers grasp
a Pippin File, a skeleton key and they
looked up: Bramah winking! Her hands unlock
the doors Consortium sealed them in, blasted———
And did the aunties take the child, yes they did, yes they did
the doctor and the beggar girl, the mother and the son.
Jumped the fence
you should too.
Inscribed on the Walls of Migrant Camp #3
Those children—
Toxic Breeze!
Use your Sleeve!
Right as Rain
Good as New
Jumped the Fence
You Should Too
Roll Your Dice
Don’t Think Twice
Un Coup de Dés
Jamais, Jamais
There’s our Aunty Agatha!
Where’s our Aunty Tabitha?
Hey, Bramah:
You R Our
English-
Masala Girl
Your Lock and Key
Will Set Us Free.
The Tale of the Village Spy, Found in the Year 2087
Yes, they came for her, the woman nam
ed A.
No, of course I didn’t get paid. Did my duty.
What? Well, she bloody well had it coming.
Never fails. Them righteous. Too smart for their own good.
Look at me. I’ve done all right, haven’t I?
And look at our Betty then, just look at her!
Nothing wrong turning in a few words:
–—Them with their stockholders’ meetings
–—I read things, too, you know.
——Betty, I says, resistance is futile.
Oh, we had a good laugh, just look at us.
Aren’t I right, then? Everythings all bought and paid for.
Makes no difference in the end.
She should have bloody well just done the same,
Bramah and the Beggar Boy Page 17