The Day's Last Light Reddens the Leaves of the Copper Beech

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by Dobyns, Stephen;


  the phone ring and feel suddenly happy,

  only to grasp it was basically nobody,

  and each burst of knowing would be one

  little death, and they will happen all day.

  Casserole

  The day I learned my wife was dying

  friends called to see if we needed anything

  and if they could help out. Just what

  do you have in mind? I wanted to ask.

  Even if I got hard drugs, I’d eventually

  wake up. And there it would be again:

  the awful knowing. Compared to that

  could I ask for a casserole? The richest

  of the world’s gifts wouldn’t mean squat.

  To know friends’ feelings helped a little,

  but afterward the pain was just as great.

  What could they do to fill a vacancy?

  At most we had a shared helplessness;

  naïve victims of how the world works.

  Inexplicably

  The day I learned my wife was dying

  I began to study alternative universes.

  In my house, life might be fucked up,

  but somewhere existed a place where

  she wouldn’t be tired or need morphine.

  We wouldn’t be figuring out how many

  days she had left. Sure, we couldn’t fly

  to such a world, but just to know it existed

  might help. I’d think of her reading a book

  or pruning the roses. When the phone rang,

  I’d say it was she and be right. How good

  you look, people would say, and I would too.

  Then we might kiss and visit those crannies

  that, inexplicably, we had left untouched.

  Prague

  The day I learned my wife was dying

  I told myself if anyone said, Well, she had

  a good life, I’d punch him in the nose.

  How much life represents a good life?

  Maybe a hundred years, which would

  give us nearly forty more to visit Oslo

  and take the train to Vladivostok,

  learn German to read Thomas Mann

  in the original. Even more baseball games,

  more days at the beach and the baking

  of more walnut cakes for family birthdays.

  How much time is enough time? How much

  is needed for all those unspent kisses,

  those slow walks along cobbled streets?

  Gardens

  The day I learned my wife was dying

  I thought of how knowledge is finite

  while imagination has no end. It’s like

  the earth versus the universe; and once

  out there, why come home? But I’ve no choice;

  the imagination abruptly sags, and plop,

  I’m here again, and everything’s worse.

  This happens dozens of times each day.

  I expect those who are mad are stuck

  on imagination’s side and can’t get back.

  I’ve come to envy them: to flee the Awful

  for what the mind constructs: impossible

  gardens with books and good things to eat.

  And she’ll be there, healthy and laughing.

  Part Three

  The Miracle of Birth

  For Sylvia Lee

  Hacking and coughing, slapping at scorch marks

  on their otherwise white robes, the souls

  of the dead stagger toward the Pearly Gates

  as St. Peter tugs his beard to hide a guilty look.

  Oh, how they loved them; how could they ever

  exist without them? So do the souls clamor over

  their absent anatomy. Only a cynic would claim

  the souls of the dead ascend with the last gasp

  of breath. Instead, like a faithful hound curled

  in the grass by its master’s tomb, the souls

  try to hang on, sneaking into coffins, hitching

  rides to crematoriums, anything to win a last

  embrace from a dear one. But then the smell

  begins: fetor of decay, miasma of putrefaction.

  Press an ear to the bare earth of a fresh grave

  and soon you’ll hear a familiar choking sound.

  A day later a nighttime jogger might spot a geyser

  of marsh gas or will-o’-the-wisp, as the gagging

  guardian of the recently defunct blasts off toward

  the balmy air of heaven. Even faster is their escape

  from crematoriums as eruptions of greasy smoke

  racing skyward readily attest. But just as the folks

  at refineries mix methyl mercaptan with odorless

  propane to create the stink of rotten eggs, skunk

  smell, robust farts, so the powers of heaven splash

  a suitable stench on the moldering flesh. Otherwise

  a soul might linger until only the chromium balls

  and polyethylene sockets of phony hips remained.

  Thus the nasty smell. Those kids practicing kisses

  or couples fucking in the backseats of VW bugs

  are amorous triflers compared to the ardor of the soul

  for its partner. As they sullenly wait for reassignment,

  they dangle their feet into the blue abyss at the brink

  of heaven like boys on a wall bumping their sneakers

  on the bricks below. Isn’t it the soul’s initial distaste

  for its next host and its loyalty to the past that leads

  to the mix-up of childhood and tumult of adolescence?

  Such is the miracle of birth as the soul is first thrust

  into a minuscule egg, then cast squawking into the world

  as potential rich man, poor man, beggar man, thief.

  Fly

  What’s that noise? a man asks his wife.

  She walks to the window. The sound of feet,

  thousands of boots marching in unison.

  I can see nothing, the woman tells him.

  The man joins her. Nothing, he repeats.

  And the smell—think of the smell of one

  unwashed body, one unwashed uniform,

  and increase it a hundred thousand fold.

  The man shuts the window, but still the smell

  sticks to their skin, clings to every part

  of their home. What is it? the man repeats.

  Their voices are no more than a whisper.

  They can hide. What’s the point of hiding?

  They can run. Why bother running?

  They feel defeated by the world’s terrors.

  They can turn up their radio and dance.

  They can play cards; they can drink gin.

  They can fight one another or make love.

  It will be there even still. A fly crawls

  across the window. The man squashes it

  with his thumb. Like them, like them.

  The Inquisitor

  Arriving home, he rubs his hands

  to warm them up or work out the kinks,

  I don’t know which. Next he greets

  the wife with a smack on the cheek

  and gets one back in the give and take

  of domestic bliss. After that he checks

  the mirror to inspect his smile. Which

  looks best, when he shows off his teeth

  or not? He scrubs his hands with a stiff

  brush, good soap. If hands could shine

  this would be the time, but they’re as pale

  as parchment or a worm beneath a rock.

  A nice roast for dinner, not too rare,

  sliced beets, chopped cabbage, asparagus

  spears, then a fat cigar before the fire.

  He would never think of kicking his dog;

  the cat is safe on his lap. As for plucking

  the wings off flies, he’s not that sort.

  His children without exceptio
n get

  the best Christmas and birthday gifts,

  toy cop cars with flashing lights, dolls

  that shed real tears. Quick to loan

  a friend a hammer or cordless drill.

  Quick to join the blood drive or pledge

  a sawbuck to the policemen’s ball.

  On Sundays it’s yard work, cutting the grass,

  chopping a hedge. He’s good with tools

  and might sharpen a neighbor’s ax.

  At night he and the wife relax in front

  of the TV with popcorn and beer—

  tragedies and butchery, the usual fare.

  What’s this nonsense? The screen is dark.

  All the stories float in the air in between.

  The Poet’s Disregard

  Once more Old Anonymous picks up his pen.

  What shall he write about this time?

  The eternal verities have turned out

  less than eternal. Once again endless love

  has ended. He ponders composing an ode

  to his long time sidekick Death, but as his

  own departure draws near their friendship

  has grown problematic. The pen of the poet

  hangs in mid-air like an arrested rocket.

  The world in a grain of sand, the worm

  in the heart of the rose—the old subjects

  in slinky gowns execute their turns along

  the runway of his imagination. At times,

  Anonymous thinks, it’s necessary to wait,

  and then wait some more. Clocks gobble

  minutes like salted nuts as today’s struggle

  between the brutal and pragmatic flails away

  a stone’s throw from the poet’s disregard,

  by the glare of the burning library,

  beneath the shadow of the deserted school.

  Parable: Gratitude

  At times virtue is a torture, kindness a crime.

  Think of the pig whose right rear leg was made

  of solid wood; straps on his belly kept it in place.

  But isn’t this the pig that saved the farmer’s kids

  from the river? Hadn’t he fixed the timing belt

  on the farmer’s Ford? The farmer patted the pig

  on the head, gave him a smooch on the snout.

  But to a friend he said: A pig like that you don’t

  eat him all at once. Soon a second leg was gone.

  The pig shingled the roof, painted the house,

  dug a new well. The farmer gave him cookies

  and let him sleep in a featherbed, but the farmer

  began grinding his teeth. He had headaches

  and peculiar fits of temper. He asked himself:

  Have I gone nuts seeing all the pig has done?

  The pig milked the cows, made cider, pickled

  cucumbers and beets, canned the kumquats.

  Soon the farmer had trouble sleeping at night;

  he quarreled with his wife, yelled at the kids.

  What’s the farmer’s problem anyway? Such

  is the burden of emotional debt. Each step

  he took felt like a spike through his foot. His life

  became a minus sign, a spot well below zero.

  When the friend came back, the pig’s front legs

  had been turned to hams and he was strapped

  to a kid’s skateboard. I’m saving the best for last,

  the farmer joked. The pig sang to the hens so they

  laid more eggs. He taught the kids to yodel Bach.

  The storm cloud above the farmer’s head grew

  to the size of Texas. He felt worse than sludge

  at the bottom of a well. Soon the pig was gone.

  Good to the last drop, the farmer told his friend.

  Right away, his house began to fall apart;

  the barn roof collapsed; a fox ate the chickens.

  The farmer welcomed each crisis with a smile.

  He slept like a baby. His sex-life grew robust.

  On a tombstone by the barn were the words:

  This was one smart pig! Freed from the curse

  of obligation, the farmer polished his vulgarity;

  he drank straight from a bottle and shot craps

  with his friends. His spouse played sex games

  with the gas man; the kids gulped down mind-

  confounding drugs. Each felt reborn. Is this

  what we call normal? They splashed about

  in the great, warm bath of milk called happiness.

  They lounged about in the jubilation of disregard.

  Virtue became a nasty word like dog-shit or fart.

  The kids tossed rocks at every truck that passed.

  Sincerity

  Today I’ll write a poem about myself—

  not like the other poems I’ve written

  about myself. No, this one will be more

  truthful, or at least more sincere. It’s my

  sincere self that’s writing today, the self

  that longs for intimacy, or some intimacy,

  at least. My sincere self says: I work hard;

  I try the best I can; I’m often a good person.

  But today the self I’m writing about is also

  more likable than the self I wrote about

  yesterday, not silly-likable or I’ll-give-you-

  money likable, but trustworthy likable;

  that is, more trustworthy than not, trust-

  worthy enough to be trusted. I want to be

  completely honest about this. I want you

  to see me ripping off my clothes and rising

  before you shy and vulnerable, prepared

  to tell my deepest secrets, or deep enough

  for you to think they’re hugely deep, which

  they will be, most of them, more than half.

  I want you to see me on the brink of tears,

  my whole body on the brink of tears,

  elbows on the brink of tears, my feet,

  my thumbs, my earlobes, my hair follicles,

  even my genitals on the brink of tears,

  each testicle on the brink of tears, big

  ball, little ball, and each totally sincere.

  I don’t want any confusion about this.

  I know at times I’ve stretched the truth.

  For example, my dysfunctional childhood,

  that spanking I once told you about had,

  indeed, no sexual component. That time

  I fell down stairs? I shouldn’t have said

  I was pushed. And my sexual conquests?

  My last girlfriend said I should have been

  a monk; she said it would have saved me

  years of embarrassment. In fact, she was

  more a girl-acquaintance, than a girlfriend,

  someone I sat next to on a crosstown bus.

  So she’s not the one who matters here. I’m

  the one who matters. I want you to see me

  with my arms outstretched to reveal truth

  stripped of hyperbole and sexual overkill,

  as sincerity throbs like an exposed artery. Soon

  I’ll recount my trials and beating the odds,

  but as we wait for the big subjects to roll out

  grant me a microscopic sweetness squeezed

  from the golden cornucopia orbiting above us.

  May I lay my head on your shoulder? Then,

  of course, you too will have the chance to share.

  Hero

  This is what happened: a man needed a job.

  He hadn’t worked for a month so he took

  the civil service exam and got a job

  at the Detroit zoo, way down the totem pole,

  right at the bottom. He wore blue overalls

  and a blue cap. He looked like a cop without

  the badges and Glock. His job was to feed

  the zebras, feed the giraffe, feed the bears.

&
nbsp; The bears’ cage resembled a stone cave

  without a roof. But it had a ledge about

  six feet off the ground. His boss said:

  Sometimes a bear likes to get on the ledge

  and jump on whoever is giving him food.

  It hasn’t happened much, but it’s happened.

  So keep alert. The next morning the man fed

  the zebras, he fed the antelopes and giraffes.

  When he got to the bears’ cage, he paused.

  No bears in sight. The man entered the cage

  and took a step toward the feeding trough,

  then he took one more. Only ten steps to go.

  Still no bear. It must be waiting nearby. Soon

  he heard a noise—maybe a bear, maybe a bus

  on Woodward Avenue. What was his chance

  of being eaten? The man’s legs were as heavy

  as tombstones. He thought of home; he thought

  of his wife and six kids. He wasn’t very big.

  He knew what bears could do to a little guy

  like him. They would gobble even his buttons.

  Time passed. People looked into the cage, but

 

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