Watching Historic Drama

For love we have been pragmatists, sitting indoorsfor rain, never convinced by our own smiling,

an eye to the corner of the screen. Concentratingon her greasepaint, mouthing the words. It was

winter, everything hung like drywall. No roomon the upper shelves. No one both same and foreign.

Her face is wooden, screened. Her garden is namedfor tranquility, then blossoming, then everything

that is golden. Her home is the warehouseof ornamental trees, small mounds of dirt

in dry mouths, thin film of salt.Fish both still and writhing.

________

Her love does not anticipate concrete, blue tarps,air conditioner hung out the window, first in one

room then in each, every square in a patchof towers. First her son is given away. She eats

a soup and becomes barren. She gives commandsso beautifully that no one understands. Her body

freezes in the mountains. Her body is throwndown a well. The museum provides a placard

and rope. The nation builds a field where therewas only water. The city gives each pillar

its botanical name. There is less misery in generalbut this does not prevent our recognition. This is

where the ocean finds us, rising. We have to pretendwe would not cry if it were a thousand years ago.

We would be crying all the time, pinningmetal in our hair to sing praises.