Door in the Mountain: New and Collected Poems, 1965-2003

The Burden of Memory

—a tall man, restless, faithful, your light eyes always not-here; always here . . . I think of our lives different the same the years, half-blown, What we had, we have. Now I can turn, —now, without want, or harm— turn back to the room, say your name: say: other say, thou . . . The Burden of Memory Do you remember, last time we saw each other, how the first thing you said was, “Isn’t it good we’re always friends?” And then, both of us, I think, feeling stopped, empty-handed; past the high, brittle day of meeting like lovers, five years ago; just ourselves again, groping for friendship again. And then, you talked so easily, like when we were kids; more than you ever have, to me, about your life, now; yourself. And I remembered, what I’d known before—I wonder if it’s so, for you, too—being drawn, with you, by memory, back to a life that seems less harmful . . . “student days” . . .—And what good was that? That memory itself drawing us to harm. But then, ourselves again; some mercy; taking in that angry sorrow, part of us, a healed bone that does go on hurting; a mark of mercy; and we could be quiet again, and talk. And then, here in this solitude, this quiet, remembering so many things I’d forgotten, I was thinking back to those days: you, an “older man,” going with L.; I suppose you were both seventeen . . . Do you remember, one day when we were talking, I forget what 152 door in the mountain about, but my saying, “You’re such a friend to me,” and you said, “Yes and I always will be.” And then I could tell you about that time, in California.—I want to talk to you now about it, again; I’ve never talked to anyone else about it, and it’s been alive with me here again—do you remember it? I don’t think you could; the whole family, over at another Navy family’s place, for a picnic. 1943—I was nine. I was off from the other kids when I saw it. In a shed, or garage, I don’t remember: a wooden building, pretty far off from the house. There was a barrel, but I could see into it, and there were heads in there, people’s heads, cut in half. In something like formaldehyde maybe, they were kept so life-like. I never knew why I didn’t run for one of the other kids, to look.—I could only finally tell, on the way home; I got sick again, in the car, and I told them. Of course my parents said Nonsense, it was impossible; but very angry. A little later they said I must be very overtired, and after that they were always very careful that I should get plenty of sleep.—I could never tell anyone again. It was so real: but it was impossible, it couldn’t have been there. I must be crazy. And what a creepy kind of crazy. What becomes of people like that?—And some awful shame, worse than any shame I’ve ever felt. And then I could tell you, that day, ask you, if you thought I was crazy; tell you about the shame. And you said, “I think it happened. In some way. I don’t know. It doesn’t matter, what way.” —You mean a dream or something. I know it wasn’t a dream. But I know, it couldn’t— —We were around the same age. I saw things . . . we heard about things. —But you were there, in the war. —It doesn’t matter. I don’t know. It was 1943. People knew things. We do; we know things now. And here we are, alive. Fine; playing, in peace. No wonder for the shame. What will we do? I don’t know . . . But it doesn’t mean we did those things. You know that. I wonder if you had any idea, how saving that was, what you said. the messenger 153 The same lightening of things, talking to you now, in this room— And you—I wonder, have I been companionable to you, too, been there, any use, in your silences, your aloneness—your letter the other day, saying, “a low time”—I wish I could touch your hand, there, now . . . —We do know...