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Callaloo 27.4 (2004) 876-882



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History

Prologue:

This is a poem about the itch
That stirs a nation at night.

This is a poem about all we'll do
Not to scratch—

(Where fatigue is great, the mind
Will invent entire stories to protect sleep.)

Dark stories. Deep fright.
Syntax of nonsense.

Our prone shape has slept a long time.
Our night, many nights—
This is a story in the poem's own voice.
This is epic.
*

Part One: Gods and Monsters

There is an eagle.
The Eagle.

The Eagle dreams light,
Dreams molten heat, dreams words

Like bark, fir and great mountains
Appear under the shadows of great trees.

The Eagle dreams fox, and that amber shape
Appears in a glade. Dreams egg, [End Page 876]

And the fox is cradling
A fragile world between sharp teeth.

All gods do this.
Flesh is the first literature.

There is Pan Gu. Dog-god.
His only verb: to grow.

And when he dies, history happens.
His body becomes Word:

Blood, eye, tendon, teeth
Become river, moon, path, ore.

Marrow becomes jade. Sperm, pearl.
The vermin of his body, you and me.

Elsewhere and at the same time,
Some sentient scrap of first flame,

Of being ablaze, rages on,
Hissing air, coughing still more air,

Sighing rough sighs around the ideas
Of man, woman, snake, fruit.

We all know the story
Of that god. A story written in smoke

And set down atop other stories.
(How many others? Countless others.)

There is the element of Earth to consider:
Fast globe driven by the children of gods.

Driven blind, driven with fatigue, fear,
With night sweats and hoarse laughter.

Driven forward, stalled, dragged back.
Driven mad, because the ones

Who drive it are not gods themselves.
Because the children of gods are not gods. [End Page 877]
*

Part Two: The New World

There were always fragile fingers
Winding cotton and wool—
Momentary clouds—into thread.

Was always that diminishing. Words
Whittled and stretched into meaning.
And meaning here is: line.

What the fish tugs at. What is crossed.
Thin split between Ever and After.
And what, in going, is lost.

Was always the language of pigment:
Indigo, yolk, dirt red. This meant
Belonging. What the women wove:

Stark wonder. Hours and hours.
Mystery. Misery. On their knees.
A remedy for cold.

There were houses not meant to stand
Forever. But not for the reasons
We were told.
*

Part Three: Occupation

Every poem is the story of itself.
Pure conflict. Its own undoing.
Breeze of dreams, then certain death.
Every poem is a world.

This poem is Creole. Kreyol.
This poem is a boat. Bato.
This poem floats on the horizon
All day all night. Has leaks
And a hundred bodies at prayer.
This poem is not going to make it.
But it must. [End Page 878]

And this poem is the army
Left behind when the bato
Sails. This poem is full
Of soldiers. Soldas.
When the bato is turned back,
The people it carries,
Those who survive, will be
Made to regret leaving.
The soldas know how to do this.
How to make a person
Wish for death. The soldas
Know how to do this
Because many of them believe
They have already died once before.

There are secret police
Who don't want the poem to continue,
But they're not sure
It is important enough to silence.
They go home to wives
Who expect to be taken out,
Made love to, offered
Expensive gifts. They are bored,
The police and their wives.
They eat, turn on the tv, swallow
Scotch, wine. In bed, they say nothing,
Feigning sleep. And the house,
A new house, croons to itself.
Its voice seeps out and off,
Marries with the neighbors',
Makes a kind of American music
That holds everything in place.

Of course there are victims in this poem:

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victim victim victim victim...

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