Popular Longing. Natalie Shapero
the arid access road,
the only remembrance that matters.
Don’t make a speech.
For years I would wonder whether
the man who attacked me—
in his memory, did the event of it
persist as a dull sort of flash? Then
he died and became himself
just a flash in the mind of the world.
Now I wonder—is he anywhere?
I don’t believe in Hell and also I don’t
believe in nothing, so that leaves only
Heaven. I have a couple
questions. It is my understanding
that the weather in Heaven
has only a single setting,
which is PLEASANT. I haven’t
spent real time in California, but friends
of mine who’ve moved there
say it’s challenging, absent the changing
of the seasons, to remember when things
took place. With reference to always
the lodgepole pine and the low-bent
needlegrass, you get confused.
Dates and sequences, even the people
involved. You can almost imagine
the whole thing was somebody else.
A Space to Train and Exit
Maybe California’s just plain easier,
with the commonness
of outbuildings. Raw-looking cedar or sheet
metal walls and a runnel
of sun getting in through the roof seams.
Position the heavy bag, tighten the eyebolt,
twenty-five right hooks. Or pull up
a chair and compose your suicide note.
A space to train and exit.
The purpose of having a body at all
is to practice, to practice
the keeping alive of domestic
animals and plants. You dispense to yourself
some minerals and water. You expose
yourself to the sun and it helps
you remember to do the same for those
in your charge. If you could equip
them with all they require, or make them
require nothing, you wouldn’t
need your body at all.
Magpie
Unusual rain of late, and a new weed
that resembles concertina wire
is threading itself through the dirt.
Seeing it makes me think of never seeing it again,
how I will miss this upstart greenness
after I lose it all and am thrown
from this home, which will be soon.
It’ll be someone else living here then, hiding
an emergency key in a bucket,
up late snaking the bath drain or early
doing sit-ups on the painted floor.
It’ll be someone else walking a mile and a half
to the store called Magpie, buying
a gift for whichever friend’s baby, rattle
or small shirt with a transit map.
The name is meant to conjure up a gorgeous, inky
creature culling treasures to bring
back, but if you really get close
to a magpie’s nest, you see it’s all trash.
Tea
I can’t get away from it.
Felted-up reenactors shoving a great fake crate of it
into the Harbor and jeering.
After the tour group leaves, they fish it
back out and towel it off,
unbutton their waistcoats to smoke.
At the nearby counter-service place, there are two
jars next to the register, and dropping bills
into one or the other is how
we affirm our commitments—why should we ever
pay decently, unless it occurs
in this fever of rivalry that passes for fun?
What are our choices and might I suggest
LESS IS MORE against MORE IS MORE?
Or IT COULD HAPPEN ANYTIME against IT HAPPENS
ALL THE TIME? Or how about THIS VIOLENCE
FOREVER UNDOES A PERSON
against THAT CONTENTION CAN ONLY
BE ROOTED IN THE RETROGRADE
VIEW THAT A WOMAN IS EITHER INTACT OR SHE’S
NOT? I always thought I’d made
peace with THIS PLANET, and yet here I am
shoving all my cash in the jar
marked ANYPLACE ELSE. There isn’t enough
money in the world.
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