The Day I Met the Hanged Man
- The Day I Met the Hanged Man
Henry Israeli, poetry
It's good to be dead in America.
Peter Gizzi
He asks me to buy him a drink, his face a mirror whose patina has erasedits reflection, features falling away like rust. I offer him my own, a drink whose nameI cannot remember but means dirt path in one of the dead languages I've studied.Are you my father, I ask, and he laughs. I am much more than that, he saysand takes my hands in his, exposing veins that have risen like rows of planted yams.It's raining inside his eyes, and in the rain I see myself making my way throughthe drenched city, crossing the ebony streets with a wet map held over my head,a map of the old country, its war torn borders scratched out with red marker.When he leaves, I stare into my drink, trying to remember just who I wasmeant to be. I shut the door behind me and walk into the blank canvas of night,into the woods, looking for my tree. [End Page 691]
henry israeli's poetry collections are god's breath hovering across the waters, Praying to the Black Cat, and New Messiahs. He translated three books by Albanian poet Luljeta Lleshanaku. Israeli is also the founder and editor of Saturnalia Books. He is associate professor of English and director of the Drexel Writing Festival at Drexel University.
