At the Great Door of Morning. Robert Hedin
A small Kurdish boy in a long blue robe
Who gave us directions that day we were lost,
And how he knew nothing of America
But two syllables he sang over and over
In the high-pitched voice of a girl—
Ali, Ali—then laughed and all at once
Began to bob and weave, jabbing and juking,
His robe flaring a moment like a fighter’s.
Ali. One word, two bright syllables
That turned to smoke in the morning air.
And he pointed down the long, dusty road
To Hatra and Ur, the ruins of Babylon,
And the two ancient rivers we had read about,
Their dark starless waters draining away into fog.
Mincielli
Everyone agreed Mincielli wasn’t the same after the big roan reared up and kicked him broadside in the head. Not many could survive a blow like that, and he spent the next week blacked out, a bump big as a walnut over his right ear. For sure he wasn’t dead, but he wasn’t of this world either. We just figured he was lost somewhere in between and hoped he’d find his way back. When he finally came to, he wasn’t the same old Mincielli anymore. He was friendlier, more agreeable. It was as though he’d been away on vacation, and just sat in the bakery telling everyone where he’d been, how balmy the weather was there, and how glad he was to be home now, back at his job in the feedstore, all rested and ready for work.
How Drabowski Became Famous
The last time I saw Drabowski was the afternoon of the big hailstorm. I was out in the yard checking for damage when he came by, his body all bruised, battered, his left foot dragging behind the right like a piece of luggage. And when I called out to see how he was doing, he threw up a hand and said he was fine, “a little sore maybe, but just fine,” and kept on going, past the dented pickup, the smashed glass, the power lines crackling like lightning, hobbling off into the late afternoon to join the rest of the wreckage.
Miss Sanvidge
What happened to my old trumpet with the three sticky valves and mouthpiece all battered beyond shining? Or for that matter those long hours I spent languishing away in the last chair of the high-school band room, stumbling through Sousa, “Taps,” “The Star-Spangled Banner.” And what happened I wonder to Miss Sanvidge and her dusky parlor where we used to sit side by side that summer I took up the piano, her little plaster bust of Beethoven scowling down as I plugged away week after week—beautiful, middle-aged Miss Sanvidge, who every Tuesday set the metronome ticking.
Basic Math
Seventy-two beats per minute, 4,320 an hour. That’s 103,680 a day, or 37,843,200 a year. Now subtract for the cigarettes, the bourbon, the sleepless nights, the lost weekend in the Poconos. That leaves 567,600,000 taps until the clouds part, the dust bows down, until the little black train comes to take me away, O Lord. All this I calculated this morning, Ash Wednesday, as I sit here under duress—one hand over my heart pledging allegiance, the other drumming furiously at the calculator, while snow drifts down over the empty lawn chairs, the flakes too many to count—and dedicate to Pythagoras, Euclid, and all the other early mathematicians, but mostly to those three overworked draft horses who darkened the stables at Washington Elementary—Miss Keeley, Miss Ramsey, and Miss Loper—whom I thank now for the flash cards, the mountains of homework, and the long-suffering hours I spent at the blackboard, adding columns taller than I was. May they rest in peace, wherever they are.
My Mother Turns Ninety
I should mention that all this time
It’s been getting darker, the light
So poor I can barely see my breath,
How everything now is tired
Of climbing, even the smoke rising
In great strides over the rooftops
Wants to lie down at rest with the rain.
An Hour Ago
In the small dusty
Galaxy of the garden,
Where the hydrangeas
Are all bright blue
And bask like planets
In the morning light,
I could hear Bashō
Hard at work, hoeing.
The Bank at Fourth & Main
Even Audubon would like this place,
This aviary of young, colorful birds.
All day they glide from desk to desk,
From one dusty perch to another,
Chirping away to the sweet music
Of money, the whole flock waiting
For five when they migrate back
To their roosts in the suburbs,
The bright wings of their shawls
Filling the drafty flyway of the street.
Out Pruning
In the garden this morning,
I thought for a moment
I saw T’ao Ch’ien.
But it was just one
Of my old hydrangeas
Swaying in the cool breeze,
Nodding its great dusty head.
Turning Sixty
So this is how it must’ve looked,
The gates to the garden
Creaking shut,
And both of them
Standing there in late-afternoon light,
Looking back, the rain pelting
Down hard, the flowers
Closing their shutters,
The leaves already beginning to fall.
Not the Way They Used to Make Love
Standing up, fumbling over clasps
And hooks, boxers and pink panties
Puddled at the ankles. Or sprawled out,
Spread-eagled, those wild furtive nights
On the Persian rug, the kitchen table,
Bra dangling from the dusty galaxy
Of the chandelier. But only now,
If at all, in the dusky bedroom, rocking
Side by side in the last slant of sunlight,
Their tired, broken-down bodies
Rising once more to the old familiar task
Of making each other beautiful again.
The