Worlds Elsewhere

Scenes from Childhood

In winter, when a dirty laceof snow wristed the walks and driveways,the coalman came. His truckshiny black, he backed infrom the back alley, slid his chute throughthe basement window and shoveledthe coal into the cellar. For a fewminutes there was nothing in the worldbut the rumble of the coal coming inand the black dust filling the air.

2

We would hear the horses beforewe saw them. And then the wagon roundedthe corner, its pear-shaped bellringing with the jerking motion.The horses started and stopped,snorted and pawed the street, flippingtheir heads and manes, switching their tails.The bread was always warm.The breadman carried the loaveslined up along his arm like a litter of sleeping kittens.Even after the wagon was long gone,the neighborhood was permeated bythe sweet smell of fresh bread.

3

The ice, covered with a black tarpand nested in straw, was cut in huge blocks.The iceman heaved each block onto his shoulder like a sack of oats, bending underits weight. His shiny leather shoulder patch,strapped over his shirt, gleamed, slipperywith wet. He had a wide gap-toothedgrin and joked with everyone. He puta block of ice in the icebox in the cornerof the kitchen and, snapping his pincersat us, laughed his way back to his wagon.In summer he always gave us slivers to holdin our mouths. We shivered, loving the cold.

4

He limped along the street, his smallbell ringing with his awkward motionand the uneven pavement. The womenhurried to find their knives and scissorsand ran to wait along the curb, gossipingwith one another about the weatherand their husbands' work, wonderingabout the war and what would becomeof it and them. The old man bent beneathhis work and rarely spoke, but the sparksflew and fell like fountains around his feet.After he had finished with them,the knives and scissors were sharp and clean.

Ghost

How easy it is to make a ghost.

—Keith Douglas

My man and shadow meetbefore me on the ground.The world is all elsewhere.We stare and stare, then calmlylook around. There is no sound.

This ghost grown from my feetleads softly into earth. We turn andturn together, lean hard on eachother, learning the line that separatesus but keeps us firmly bound.

Rereading Auden

The resonant lie that we mustlove one another or die sticksin the throat like a chicken bone.

We cough blood, thrust our nosesin the air, and stare in the facesof those coming toward us.

It is the old all over. Sin is infashion again. We let thingsgo at that. Our answers are odd

or queer. We sneer at history'scountenance and the times turnto find us where we began.