Poetry in America

Across from Jay’s Book Stall in Pittsburgh

52 across froM Jay’s book stall in pittsburgh Sun glitters on brass legs slender as thorns, arms thrust forward as if that enormous figure has always longed to tear free from the wall and walk up 5th Avenue clanking like the Tin Man in search of a heart. Inside, in a flood of golden lamplight, in an olive green chair, a girl leafs through Highlights magazine, looks for a teapot hidden in a tree, or a hammer, all alone except for the lady behind a desk who smiles when she looks up until the mother backs out a door, bent and weeping. What kind of doctor makes even grown-ups cry worse than getting shots? The mother grabs the girl’s hand, dabs her own eyes, blows her nose, sobs in the elevator, pressing buttons, weeps on the sidewalk beneath the façade of the School of Public Health: great legs like thorns, arms thrust forward as if that body has always longed to tear free. They walk forever as people part discreetly on the sidewalk; if there are looks of sympathy, the girl does not see. She wears buckle shoes, and pans the scene from afar: silk lampshade, sculpture’s hard glitter, stack of thin books under one arm. Serene, the girl knows pain makes people cry, and silence makes the best hiding place. Years later she will see: People weep to get well, sometimes. The sad will always seem blameless. The depressed will always be with us. She will remember it all from the limbs of a sycamore tree like Zacchaeus, tax man who climbed up to catch a glimpse. Zacchaeus, come down. I am going to your house for tea. Even those broad, leathery leaves couldn’t hide him from a Savior’s invitation. In a child’s soup, limp noodle letters float among tiny points of glowing vermilion grease and spell nothing. We swallow them whole without chewing. ...