Two galaxies collide—
I think I need an aspirin.
Since 1985
the number of people
with no one to talk to
has doubled,
and here
I thought that I
was all alone!
From Franz Wright’s new collection, Wheeling Motel. He must be as good as ever but maybe I am no longer as good a reader.
Her body in twilight was almost too much to look upon; her hipbone, her strange out-poking navel, her breast, the side of her throat were of some other world, and even in that world, where beauty was but the crudest version of whatever power Rachel possessed, there were no words for the fierce line of her jaw or the wing of her cheekbone.
Wow. Bonnie Jo Campbell.
After the desperate night with Rachel in the barn in autumn 1997, George had immersed himself in the business of self-loathing and tried to leave the girl out of it altogether, but his efforts only made him think of her more. Pushing thoughts of her under the surface resulted in roots spreading in all directions: She sprouted everywhere in his consciousness. Over the course of harvesting, George kept worrying she’d appear in front of his tractor, perhaps so suddenly that he couldn’t avoid crushing her. During his sleepless nights, he sensed her standing outside the house, cursing him. During the winter that followed, he walked gingerly through snow, imagining her lying in hibernation beneath each drift. By spring, he found that the soil under his feet was imbued with her, and the process of cultivating seemed criminal, as though by disturbing the dirt with his plows, he were tearing her body apart.
As of page 75, Bonnie Jo Campbell’s Q Road is one of the best books I’ve read all year.
The street violinist who played for me
in her evening dress
simultaneously lived with Bach
and the clang of my coins.
Oh boy. Oh fucking boy is this me right now. Anyway, find or buy and, no matter which, read Different Hours, by Stephen Dunn, which this is from. Among the pages is a brilliant, heartbreaking imagining of Jack and Jill’s life post-hill.
I’ve seen you in the teeming, concupiscent
streets, I married you, at dusk I followed you
into bars; every time I found you
I recognized you as someone seen before.
I could not choose not to respond to desire.
Only you understand.
Old now, I admit to you
I’ve been content for hours watching deer
play out their nimble, nervous lives.
I’ve considered flowers and without sadness
watched them drop their yellow leaves.
Yes. Right. If you are lucky at the right time and in the right place when you are unlucky. We have deer in our yard every morning, every night. The poem goes on for 15 more lines, three stanzas, then picks up to end:
We’ll be sitting side by side,
noontime, in a park.
We’ll not be able to see the sun
due to the excess of light.
I’ll raise my hand to your face
and you’ll tilt your cheek my way,
and I’ll move that lock of hair, now gray,
to where I’ve always liked it to be.
