ARCHEOLOGY OF DESIRE

Digging for Troy

[22] Digging for Troy A ruined city— An image of the mind— Layer upon layer— Mound of grass that covers Troy, City upon city, stratified in soil, Laid down by history’s alluvial flow That you must sort To find a story Dig you must Though victim and hero are both reduced to dust. My father read aloud from Lattimore’s Translations—The Iliad, The Odyssey Unillustrated, line after line of Homer Passed as a vision in my childhood brain. He’d pause sometimes, to wipe his eyes Or blow his nose if truly overcome, He read both summer and winter Before the fireplace, on the shady porch I’d perch on the arm of the copious chair Or sit across from him and watch him read. It was obvious Who his favorite was Not a killer like Achilles But the sailor Odysseus. Helen is snatched, or splits, That lovely girl The beauty queen, homecoming royalty Waving from the back of a float. All Helens have the same redundant fate Beautiful, then old, their story The narrative of who wanted them, for what. She does not speak, a painted bride [23] Noh mask, her hand might gesture— If she went for lust, or against her will, No one will ask her. The archeologist is on a spree, Looking for his true version in the dirt, He cuts straight down into the story Discarding other versions of the past, Digging through time, Falsely linear at this site Like those gigantic redwood rings I loved in childhood for their maps; An arrow points: Columbus Discovers America As if this were a point of fact For the growing tree. After Troy, the archeologist slices down Mycenae, where things too terrible To speak of casually happened— A husband murdered in his bath A wife killed by her children Adultery, murder, a girl Who can’t stop talking. He digs down, his spade Stopped by what he knew—just knew—must be there Kings’ faces beneath golden masks— His own face. A lion gate, a beehive tomb A golden goblet, silver moon Carved crescent in the darkening sky The student’s head bent by the light of the lamp Girl child with an abacus, parsing out arithmetic Subtraction, loss, a numbered narrative At the kitchen table. An image tells you—what?—you’ve dug too far [24] Down beneath some heroic age This pottery fragment tells you—what? That which is broken cannot be replaced. Every story has its start— My sister once asked me If I’d choose To marry you again Knowing in advance how ill you’d fall How you’d die young Leave me behind, and with a grieving child. Foresight is nothing, Premonition’s sense—a tingling Of the hair along the arm. My whole life I was waiting For something to strike Coiled like a snake at the base of the spine. After all, what about that recurring dream Of the sea, of the unstable house Built without foundation That lies simply on cinder blocks As winter tide rises to engulf it. After all, the fact is—you’re still dead Have left behind artifacts Less enduring than Priam or Agamemnon Kings at war, left a pair of rubber wader boots A stack of unread mail, Unpaid bills, a bicycle, a bicycle lock Without a key. The archeologist collapses in the street Carried dying into the old hotel His wife has worn the golden diadem As Helen Which will be stolen again [25] Snatched in the sack of Berlin, Gold taken to Moscow, Bronze to Petersburg. Nations collapse, reveal the hoard Of dangling wire, golden plume A pendant lifted from a tomb Blue glass, a woman’s earring. This jar is huge What it contains Oil, or wine, Placental, will sustain This jar might house a man. This jar is huge, Contains what cannot Be contained; Peas and beans, sealed And left behind Stores of grain Stashed behind a door of stone. These pithoi say—we will return To cook and eat another day. Instead, both queens and serving girls Have disappeared, and gone away. Troy’s harbor now is silted No ship can pass The sea is barred Salt memory of a past That seeks you still. Dry wind of quick-scented spring across the plain, A green that’s soon to fade, On solid earth, you hold it in your hand What light and shadow...