Not Speaking History, and: Time Being What It Is, and: The Most Beautiful Man
Rent from DeepDyve- Not Speaking History, and: Time Being What It Is, and: The Most Beautiful Man
Not Speaking History
No, I'll take that one.At the front of the case, in the present tense.Was she really Chekhov's niece?And sitting beside Hitler?So much for fraternization,with the whole of France bankrupt—in Paris all the shutters close across from me—do they live in the dark?And meanwhile there's a clear sky,and, yes, New Orleans will be dry any day now.
Now I'm scraping up subjects among chills,grit on the rug, fiction of a first-person narrator—It doesn't have to take long:you can wrap it to go.Vandals, Franks, Huns—they all came presuming, from the East,providing a model of chaos and savagery— [End Page 33] should we need one.Yes, thanks for the memory,and the neat little bow.
Time Being What It Is
When sliding on ice, steer into the curve.It may save your life, or mine.And don't forget what I told you,In its outer limits, probabilityincludes the improbable.
The scented flower of white dawnopened into rain as I stoodwatching him drive away.All in all, we'd had a fairly satisfyingyear, and I wondered wherethe coming year would take us.
My mind was elsewhereas I kept imagining our final momentslike patterns in the dustor lines scratched on a window.
Didn't we get what we asked for?Itineraries, interactions, crossed paths?Central text of a mild adventureacross years, cities, countries, continents.
Just don't forget memory's a slipperymedium, a page turning somewhere else.Don't get up. I'll find my own way out.Didn't we live our as if? [End Page 34]
The Most Beautiful Man
You were the most beautiful man in Herzliya.Dried figs and pears, a modernist view of the sea—
After rain the trees looked silken.
When you touched my back, I jumped upat the electric charge.
The new planet was officially named Jerusalem.
After the bus ride, we climbed a hill,on a narrow path met the taxi.
You were still the most beautiful man.
Yellow and red banners, a crowd swelling.And your smile a fact.
The crowd wound slowly out into the courtyardand up rocky hill after rocky hill.
Old women in long dresses flashed the peace sign.
Last night I dreamed you were mine again,slow kisses on my eyelids.
A hundred and one odysseys spun out of your return.How quickly a life can become distance. [End Page 35]
Mary Crow, poet and translator, is Colorado's poet laureate. Her books of poetry include I Have Tasted the Apple, Borders, and three chapbooks. Her poetry translations are Woman Who Has Sprouted Wings: Poems by Contemporary Latin American Women Poets, From the Country of Nevermore (Jorge Teillier), Vertical Poetry: Recent Poems (Roberto Juarroz), and Engravings Torn from Reality (Olga Orozco). Her honors include poetry fellowships from the National Endowment for the Arts and the Colorado Council on the Arts as well as three Fulbright awards.
