“Did you see him before he left?”
“I can’t believe it,” Martino said, ignoring her, “months and months in there. I can’t imagine. We should really do something. Get him out. Hide him here.” Then Martino’s attention was distracted by the aroma of ginger coming from his saucer. “Hey, where did you manage to get this tea?”
“Laura,” she said, trying not to say more, but unable. “She sent it when she heard I was working on the biography. She said she would be glad if her brother’s name were left off it. That’s her idea.”
Martino seemed to hardly hear her as he rushed through his cup of tea. Meredith, knowing Martino never had a second, at least had never wanted a second before, thought now that maybe he would. She hesitated filling her own cup, giving him a chance to ask for another. But Martino said nothing. Then she set the pot back down next to the tea cozy and asked, “Well, do you want to see it?”
Martino’s eyes narrowed. “Excuse me?”
“The postcard. The horse. The reason for all this. Do you want to see it?”
Martino looked down into his tea cup, which he held with both hands, seemingly mesmerized as he swirled the remaining dregs.
“I have it right there, in my bedroom. In the dresser. Lower right-hand corner. With the sweaters. You can get it if you want. Or I could bring it out to you here in the living room. Would you like that?”
Martino stopped swirling but did not look up from the tea cup.
“I could leave the house for a while. Or put it outside somewhere for you to find, maybe buried, in a handkerchief or something, near the pavement on the way in? Then you could find it there whenever you want. It would not even have to be today. But don’t wait too long, because of the rain. But it hasn’t rained for weeks, so you should be all right, even if you wait a bit. Or I could just bring it to you now… I’m just trying to be helpful,” said Meredith, not daring to brush her hair out of her eyes.
Martino poured himself another cup of tea. “Maybe outside, then,” he said.
Meredith let herself smile, stood up from the couch, went into the bedroom, took the postcards out of her drawer, and set them on fire.
Epilogue
1
Slower than fast slow
moderated downward
shuffle past first idling
super-hot water kicks
out and round racehorses
once again out of gate —
emitting continued neutrons,
pressure melting syntax
cooling condensing wet hot
powers a city of millions.
Back and forth,
a combination lock
quick set zero burnt snapped dial spun
mismatched socks open drawer smeared shadow
carpet strewn brown.
Discs slip into drives heads into hats laps thighs
a cable under the ocean dropped by seamen chaffing,
carrying countless fading letters and lovers
wind battering it must come up somewhere — the cable
twisted one wire for each letter sputters out the surface
dry land saps, pencil pusher pushed
a second atom split in a cold cold country.
Oh to turn me out
right not quite there yet
not quite there
rich black blends in quick
with water too heavy to carry
shoulders too woman to hold
action we need action down here —
for all we are are the halflives
fizzling the sweetest of sweet spots.
2
Hard-held heaven burst its only flame
downward, spilling pews purple lost in prayer.
Two young bathers up from the shore
excelling their gross game
there, at the altar, fixed forms floored
wood angles crack, fighting and bored —
polished speech, creatures run
not ready, not caring —
springing seashore awaits the cutting fingers shaking
the bed you need resting out long before them both.
3
On horse or donkey in the desert
in front of a gate encased in stone
black bent twists wide gaps filter
only the largest of debris escape,
except this gate is already open
tight sand making glass against
the wall, filter flat against door —
letting trash from courtyards within
out, scuttling past the four legs waiting
for a command from Meredith riding.
The doorkeeper’s shadow quivers,
grainy hard against sand-packed stone
rising up and keeping sand at bay —
the shadow aware of the woman at the gate,
the gate aware of its doing no good,
the horse or donkey, aware,
Meredith holding its reins
in both hands tightly, knowing the shadows
on the other side are nervous
with desire to have everyone
stay on their side.
A key unused in right-flank saddlebag
a message folded in left-breast pocket
reins unsnapped in rough-gloved hands —
unfaded gate unclosed, walls left uncrumbled
a dust line backed up behind her, waiting
to sail through the gate into the city —
dust curling in and over through the desert
lifting tail and approaching the behind
spinning up hindlegs sandburn reddens,
angry at being stalled so far from home.
All around the desert is empty except
men hanging up pictures in halls except
women dancing on tables except
fires breeding in drunk wine except
children staying up late except
pigs pleading with their ghosts except
priests fumbling with pages except
classes held by candlelight except
There are too many crenels on the wall
to see what makes each one unique —
follow the patters of cracks, wear and chips
up over down over and up either,
too much asperity or none at all
tiny black holes between tiny sand grains —
far too many grains behind those holes,
or maybe they can be counted and catalogued
like Linnaeus naming Zingiber officinale
after the Sanskrit for shaped like a horn,
which ginger is, just like sand packed tight
in walls rising up its sides
like nervous hooves burning
and not like cold keys and limp reins
or unused shadows and open gates
or a latent gallop, a mighty whinny —
too many grains mean too much
to be discounted, too quickly,
each one had a purpose before
being encased in its crack.
Meredith, steadfast,
a hole or a grain, a key or
a gate, a horse or a donkey,
inside or outside the city,
a filter for trash or an uneasy portal —
mistakes counted on both sides.
Her, outside the city and outside the desert
a blueprint for the creation of new starts
an echo between falling grains of sand
a stress holding walls too heavy to fathom
although each kilo, its weight behind it,
tugging constantly down
pockets of echo a salve for holes filled
grains bruised on their way up
rations tightened, troops in formation
nothing is random when you’re under attack.
The horse or donkey coughs,
sand, working frontwards,
thickening spittle hardening between teeth
&n
bsp; coming out in spurts and sprays —
Meredith from right flank saddlebag removes
two quarts of tightly-packed milk
and dismounting administers
the pacifying, twisting stream
to tooth and eye and throat
of donkey or horse and shadow.
Acknowledgements
Thank you to Peter Greenaway for agreeing to the use of suitcase #55, “Clean Linen,” from his Tulse Luper Suitcases, as the original impetus for this project. Although Henry, Henry has undergone many revisions since then, traces of Greenaway remain in the clothes, imprisonment and uranium found in the story. In addition, apologies are due to Sir Jack Westrup for the misappropriation and blatant disregard of his Purcell (New York: J.M. Dent and Sons, 1937).
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