尤瑟夫·科蒙亚卡诗7首
They scissor edges of twilight, cutting
black shapes into sky. The wet silver
of quick wings open against eternity,
as if to erase an end with a beginning.
I made love to you, & it loomed there.
We sat on the small veranda of the cottage,
& listened hours to the sea talk.
I didn't have to look up to see if it was still there.
For days, it followed us along polluted beaches
& the girls danced for the boys,
It went away when the ghost of my mother
found me sitting beneath a palm,
but it was in the van with us on a road trip to the country
as we zoomed past thatch houses.
It was definitely there when a few dollars
exchanged hands & we were hurried
through customs, past the guards.
I was standing in the airport in Amsterdam,
sipping a glass of red wine, half lost in Van Gogh's
swarm of colors, & it was there, brooding in a corner.
I walked into the public toilet, thinking of W.E.B.
buried in a mausoleum, & all his books & papers
going to dust, & there it was, in that private moment,
the same image: obscene because it was built
to endure time, stronger than their houses & altars.
The seeds of melon. The seeds of okra in trade winds
headed to a new world. I walked back into the throng
of strangers, but it followed me. I could see the path
slaves traveled, & I knew when they first saw it
all their high gods knelt on the ground.
Why did I taste salt water in my mouth?
We stood in line for another plane,
& when the plane rose over the city
I knew it was there, crossing the Atlantic.
Not a feeling, but a longing. I was in Accra
again, gazing up at the vaulted cathedral ceiling
of the compound. I could see the ships at dusk
rising out of the lull of "Amazing Grace," cresting
the waves. The governor stood on his balcony,
holding a sword, pointing to a woman
in the courtyard, saying, That one.
Bring me that tall, ample wench.
Enslaved hands dragged her to the center,
then they threw buckets of water on her,
but she tried to fight. They penned her to the ground.
She was crying. They prodded her up the stairs. One step,
& then another. Oh, yeah, she still had some fight in her,
but the governor's power was absolute. He said,
There's a tyranny of language in my fluted bones.
There's a poetry on every page of the good book.
There's God's work to be done in a forsaken land.
There's a whole tribe in this one, but I'll break them
before they're in the womb, before they're conceived,
before they're even thought of. Come, up here,
don't be afraid, up here to the governor's quarters,
up here where laws are made. I haven't delivered
the head of Pompey or John the Baptist
on a big silver tray, but I own your past,
present, & future. You're special.
You're not like the others. Yes,
I'll break you with fists & cat-o'-nine.
I'll thoroughly break you, head to feet,
but sister I'll break you most dearly
Caught here in your limestone cave,
lost in a limbo of slow water torture,
for you, each day is always night.
Condemned to circle contours of a god’s
state of mind, all pale swimmers
in this light are a deck of cards
shuffled by a pro. I back away
into darkness? I wonder if you know
the shape of gone, of never been born.
Caught here in your limestone cave,
lost in a limbo of slow water torture,
for you, each day is always night.
Condemned to circle contours of a god’s
state of mind, all pale swimmers
in this light are a deck of cards
shuffled by a pro. I back away
into darkness? I wonder if you know
the shape of gone, of never been born.
Last night, I visited a captivity story.
I was sitting in a lean-to made of bark
with Ella Ruth, both of us teenagers—
her ebony skin, her black hair touching
her tailbone. I looked at her hard, &
she came back to sit beside the fire.
From a slit in the rawhide doorway
I could see my tribe in surgical masks,
& as dogs began to howl I woke up.
Strange how the mind finds tenderness
even in captivity. Or how amidst
this being held in isolation we dream
of masks. I see my ancestors, too,
at the Carnival of Venice, a bouquet
of myrrh, viper flesh, & honey
in the plague doctor’s long beak—
the face of death meant to ward off death.
They look back through the silver mirror.
& we entered that semi-dark room?
Those strange garments—the garb
worn by a secret society of men—
But they had cared for the contagious
sick, & escorted them to the here
& after, their faces always hidden.
Yes, we descended the Ospedale’s
winding stairs stories underground,
through a long hall to a hidden room
where a small medieval oil painting hung,
the Confraternity of the Night Oratory,
St. Catherine of Siena holds the brothers,
their faces coved in hoods & white robes,
under her cloak. They worked shifts
on behalf of the many struck with plague.
The hooded prisoners were led behind
medieval-thick walls, into their tiny cells
where solitary penitence was paid twenty-
three hours a day. No one dared to speak
at the Eastern State Penitentiary, eyes
staring always at the cold stone floors.
Beans, flourless bread, shad, lobster,
corn, peppers, & a few grains of salt.
Now, Al Capone had a rug & a radio.
On a poor man’s cell block, uncle Gussie,
who robbed a bank, spent years
in the prison built like a wagon wheel.
The low cell door forced him to bow
when entering; the skylight above—
the Eye of God—a reminder he was watched.
When his mother died, two brothers,
a priest & a cop, left sepia photographs
of the funeral. Now, cats & ghosts roam.
Lord, this big country. Land of plentitude
ravaged, heart & gut torn out in the name
of civilization & progress, & just plain old
unsung unction, low-down skullduggery
& theurgy. Nature ripped out by thew
toned in old world prisons. Horsepower.
Even with hard times here, hug the moon
devastatingly close, & beat down the door
with true love. Wherever you are, bless us.
Yeah, we’ve both known a few in the joint,
robbing Peter to pay Paul, or caught
blowing time with this one or that one.
Some excuse to keep rats on a wheel, or in a cage.
Look, time moves at least twice at once now—
back & forth, slow & fast. I held my palm
on my father’s back when he bent to whisper
in the ear of the dead, & two men in black
draped a white handkerchief over a face.
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