American Poetry Now: Pitt Poetry Series Anthology

Malena Mörling

 4 MaLena MörLing Photo by Max Brady Malena Mörling,assistantprofessorof creativewritingattheUniversity of NorthCarolina,Wilmington,istheauthorof Ocean Avenueand Astoria.She hastranslatedworksbytheSwedishpoetTomasTranströmer,aselectionof whichappearsinthecollection FortheLivingandtheDead.  4 MaLena MörLing If There Is Another World If thereisanotherworld, Ithinkyoucantakeacabthere— orrideyouroldbicycle downJunctionBlvd. pasttheParisSuitesHotel withtheEiffelTowerontheroof andpastthebloomingMagnoliaandon— tothecornerof thStreet. Andif you’reinclinedto, youcanturnleftthere andyieldtotheblind asthesignurgesus— especiallysinceitisastatelaw. Especiallysincethereisakindof moth hereontheearth thatfeedsonlyonthetearsof horses. Soonerorlaterwewillallcry frominsideourhearts. Soonerorlatereventheconcrete willcrumbleandcryinsilence alongwithallthelostroadsigns. Twodaysago00televisions washeduponabeachinShiomachi,Japan, afterhavingfallenoff ashipinastorm. Theylookedlikesomany oversizedhorseshoecrabs withtheirscreensturneddowntothesand. Andif you’reinclinedto,youcancontinue intheweightlessseesawof thelight throughafewmoreintersections wherepeopleinsidetheircars passyoubyinspace andwhereyoupassbythem, eachcaranotherthought—onlyheavier.  4 MaLena MörLing Happiness Howfarawayisyourhappiness? Howmanyinches? Howmanyyards? Howmanybusridestowork andback? Howmanydoorways andstairwells? Howmanyhours awakeinthedark bellyof thenight whichcontains alltheworld’sbedrooms, alldollhouse-sized? Howfarawayisyourhappiness? Howmanywords? Howmanythoughts? Howmuchpavement? Howmuchthread intheenormoussewingmachine of thepresentmoment? Gone Theworld isgone liketheexact shapeof acloud ortheexactshape of ahandwaving inthesunlight fromacross acrowded trainstation parkinglot toanotherhand thatwavesback.  4 MaLena MörLing Cometothinkof it, everythinguptonow isgone. AndIhavealso alreadyleft eventhough Istillride thetrain throughtheoutskirts of thecity. AndIstillsit bythewindow, thefilthy trainwindow whilewhatisleft of thedemolished buildings goespast andtheempty billboards andthetransitory architecture. It’samazing we’renot moreamazed. Theworld ishere butthenit’sgone likeawave travelingtoward otherwaves. Orlike thedelicatewhite spaceships of theDogwood thatfloat  4 MaLena MörLing asif therewere nogravity, asif therewere nomoments isolatedfrom anyother moments anywhere. Simply Lit Oftentowardevening, afteranotherday,after anotheryearof days, inthehalf darkonthewayhome Istopatthefoodstore andwaitinginlineIbegin towonderaboutpeople—Iwonder if theyalsowonderabouthow strangeitisthatwe arehereontheearth. Andhowinordertolive weallmustsleep. Andhowwehavebedsforthis (unlesswearewithout) andentireroomswherewego attheendof thedaytocollapse. AndIthinkhoweventhemost livelypeoplearedesolate whentheyarealone becausetheytoomustsleep andsoonerorlaterdie. Wearealwayslookingtoacquire morefoodformoregreatmeals. Wehavetohavegreatmeals. Isn’titenoughtobeapersonbuying acartonof milk?Asimple  4 MaLena MörLing asif therewere nogravity, asif therewere nomoments isolatedfrom anyother moments anywhere. Simply Lit Oftentowardevening, afteranotherday,after anotheryearof days, inthehalf darkonthewayhome Istopatthefoodstore andwaitinginlineIbegin towonderaboutpeople—Iwonder if theyalsowonderabouthow strangeitisthatwe arehereontheearth. Andhowinordertolive weallmustsleep. Andhowwehavebedsforthis (unlesswearewithout) andentireroomswherewego attheendof thedaytocollapse. AndIthinkhoweventhemost livelypeoplearedesolate whentheyarealone becausetheytoomustsleep andsoonerorlaterdie. Wearealwayslookingtoacquire morefoodformoregreatmeals. Wehavetohavegreatmeals. Isn’titenoughtobeapersonbuying acartonof milk?Asimple  4 MaLena MörLing packageof butterandaloaf of wholewheatbread? Isn’titenoughtostandhere whilethesweetmiddle-agedcashier ringsupthepurchases? Ilookoutside, butIcan’tseemuchoutthere becausenowitisdarkexcept forasinglevermilionneonsign floatingabovethegasstation likeaminiaturetemplesimplylit againstthenight. Seemed Pleased Justaftertheplanelifted off thegroundwithallof its weight,asmallhand,itsnailswith partiallychippedoff rednail polish,workeditself back frominbetweentheseatsin frontof meandsortof waved. ThenextIsawof theperson withthehandwasablueeye peeringbackatmeandthen thegirlstooduponherseat andsmiled.Shehadbrown,just abovetheshoulderlengthhair andbangsandsheworeablue andwhitestripedsundress.A redroseof thesamematerial asthedresswasattachedto themiddleof theupper  4 MaLena MörLing packageof butterandaloaf of wholewheatbread? Isn’titenoughtostandhere whilethesweetmiddle-agedcashier ringsupthepurchases? Ilookoutside, butIcan’tseemuchoutthere becausenowitisdarkexcept forasinglevermilionneonsign floatingabovethegasstation likeaminiaturetemplesimplylit againstthenight. Seemed Pleased Justaftertheplanelifted off thegroundwithallof its weight,asmallhand,itsnailswith partiallychippedoff rednail polish,workeditself back frominbetweentheseatsin frontof meandsortof waved. ThenextIsawof theperson withthehandwasablueeye peeringbackatmeandthen thegirlstooduponherseat andsmiled.Shehadbrown,just abovetheshoulderlengthhair andbangsandsheworeablue andwhitestripedsundress.A redroseof thesamematerial asthedresswasattachedto themiddleof theupper  4 MaLena MörLing liningwhichwasalsored. “Mymotherisdead,”shetold mesuddenly.“Sheisalreadygone— Sheisinheaven.”Thegirlseemed pleased,almostproudatthat moment,tobeabletoinform meof this,perhapsasa handywayof meeting.“This ismydad,”shesaid,andpointed tothebackof hisheadof blondthinningratherunruly capof hair.“Mydad.”She exclaimedagainandagain andhuggedhisfacewithall of hermightuntilsheknocked hisglassesoff andtheyended upintheaisle.Thensheintroduced herbrother,engrossedinabook: “ThisisMarcus,heiseight. Iamfourandahalf.”Andthen sheproceededtodemonstrate theworkingsof adoodlepad. Onthecoverof itwasaclown ridinginanairplanewaving hishandsintheclouds.Andthat’s whenthetraysof foodarrivedandthegirl whosenameIneverlearnedwastold byherfathertoturnaround andsitdownandeatwhatwas beingunwrappedforheronhertray.  4 MaLena MörLing In the Yellow Head of a Tulip Intheyellowheadof atulip inthesoundof thewindentangledintheforest inthehaphazardcombinationof things forsaleonthesidewalk anironnexttoanail-clippernexttoacanof soup nexttoastarling’sfeather inthesilenceinsideof stone inteainmusicindesireinbutterintorture inspacethatflingsitself outintheuniverse ineverydirectionatoncewithoutend despitewallsdespitegratesandceilings andbulletproof glass thesunfallsthroughwithoutrefracting inthewindhangingoutitsownsheets onalltheemptyclotheslines inthebowelsof rats intheirtinymovingarchitectures inaworldthatisalwaysmoving inthosewhoareunabletospeakbutknowhowtolisten inyourmotherwhoisafraidof herownthoughts inherfearinherdeath inherownderelictloneliness inthegardenlateatnight betweenthealdertreeandtheash sherocksherself tosleepinthehammock alittledrunkandwayward ineverythingsheisthatyouarenot inthewellof theskull inthefishthatyoutouch inthecopperwater initsbreathof water inyourbreath,thesinglebubblerising thatcouldbeyou thatcouldbeme thatcouldbenothing  4 MaLena MörLing A Wake IcalledMichaelandhetoldmehejustgothomefromawake.“Oh,Iamsorry,” Isaid.“No,no,” he said,“itwasthe bestwake Ihave ever been to. The funeral home was as warm and as cozy as anyone’s living room. We had the greatest time. My friend looked wonderful, much better dead than alive. He wore his redandgreenHawaiianshirt.HewasthemosthandsomecorpseI’deverseen. Theydidsuchagoodjob!HisdaughterwasthereandalotofoldfriendsIhad not seen in years. You know, he drank himself to death. He’d been on and off the wagon for years, but for some reason this is what he ended up doing.” As my friend kept talking, I thought of Lorca and what he wrote about death and Spain: “A dead man in Spain is more alive as a dead man than anyplace else in the world” and “Everywhere else, death is an end. Death comes, and they draw the curtains. Not in Spain. In Spain they open them. Many Spaniards liveindoorsuntilthedaytheydieandaretakenoutintothesunlight.” ...