AT LAST

THE HOUSE

I lived in this house with you: the wood shingles, unpainted, weather-beaten, fraying; the piano, a piece of furniture now, collecting dust; the bed in which all the children were born; a bowl of flowers, alive, then dead; a bowl of fruit, but then all eaten. (What was that light?) My hairbrush is full of dead hair. Where are the letters that brought the bad news? Where are they? These glasses commemorate a coronation. What are you now? A young woman. But what are you really? A young woman. I know how hard that is. If only everything would talk. The floorboards made a nice pattern when the sun came in. (Was that the light again?) At night, after cleaning the soot from the lampshade, I lighted the lamp and, before preparing for bed, planned another day. So many things I forgot, though. I hid something under the bed, but then I forgot, and it spawned a feathery white moss, so beautiful; it stank, and that’s how I remembered it was there. Now I am looking at you; your lips are soft and parted.

Are they?

I saw the cat open its jaws wide and I saw the roof of its mouth, which was pink with black shading, and its teeth looked white and sharp and dangerous. I had no shells from the sea, which was minutes away. This beautifully carved shelf: you can touch it now. Why did I not let you eat with your bare hands when you wanted to?

Why were all the doors closed so tight shut?

But they weren’t closed.

I saw them closed.

What passed between us then? You asked me if it was always the way it is now. But I don’t know. I wasn’t always here. I wasn’t here in the beginning. We held hands once and were beautiful. But what followed? Sleepless nights, oh, sleepless nights. A baby was born on Thursday and was almost eaten, eyes first, by red ants, on Friday. (But the light, where does it come from, the light?) I’ve walked the length of this room so many times, by now I have traveled a desert.

With me?

With you. Speak in a whisper. I like the way your lips purse when you whisper. You are a woman. Stand over there near the dead flowers. I can see your reflection in the glass bowl. You are soft and curved like an arch. Your limbs are large and unknotted, your feet unsnared. (It’s the light again, now in flashes.)

Was it like a carcass? Did you feed on it?

Yes.

Or was it like a skeleton? Did you live in it?

Yes, that too. We prayed. But what did we pray for? We prayed to be saved. We prayed to be blessed. We prayed for long and happy lives for our children. And always we prayed to see the morning light. Were we saved? I don’t know. To this day I don’t know. We filled the rooms; I filled the rooms. Eggs boiled violently in that pot. When the hurricane came, we hid in this corner until the wind passed; the rain that time, the rain that time. The foundation of this house shook and the earth washed away. My skin grew hot and damp; then I shivered with excitement.

What did you say to me? What did I not hear?

The mattress was stuffed with coconut fiber. It was our first mattress. It made our skin raw. It harbored bedbugs. I used to stand here, at this window, looking out at the shadows of people passing—and they were real people—and I would run my hand over the pattern of ridges in the cover belonging to the kettle. I used to stand over here too, in front of this mirror, and I would run my hands across the stitches in a new tablecloth. And again I would stand here, in front of the cold stove, and run my fingers through a small bag of green coffee beans. In this cage lived a hummingbird. He died after a few days, homesick for the jungle. I tried to take everything one day at a time, just as it was coming up.

And then?

I felt sick. Always I felt sick. I sat in this rocking chair with you on my lap. Let me calm her, I thought, let me calm her. But in my breast my milk soured.

So I was loved?

Yes. You wore your clothes wrapped tight around your body, keeping your warmth to yourself. What greed! But how could you know? A yellow liquid left a stain here.

Is that blood?

Yes, but who bled? That picture of an asphalt lake. He visited an asphalt lake once. He loved me then. I was beautiful. I built a fire. The coals glowed so. Bitter. Bitter. Bitter. There was music, there was dancing. Again and again we touched, and again and again we were beautiful. I could see that. I could see some things. I cried. I could not see everything. What illness was it that caused the worm to crawl out of his leg the day he died? Someone laughed here. I heard that, and just then I was made happy. Look. You were dry and warm and solid and small. I was soft and curved like an arch. I wore blue, bird blue, and at night I would shine in the dark.

The children?

They weren’t here yet, the children. I could hear their hearts beating, but they weren’t here yet. They were beautiful, but not the way you are. Sometimes I appeared as a man. Sometimes I appeared as a hoofed animal, stroking my own brown, shiny back. Then I left no corner unturned. Nothing frightened me. A blind bird dashed its head against this closed window. I heard that. I crossed the open sea alone at night on a steamer. What was my name—I mean the name my mother gave to me—and where did I come from? My skin is now coarse. What pity. What sorrow. I have made a list. I have measured everything. I have not lied.

But the light. What of the light?

Splintered. Died.

THE YARD

A mountain. A valley. The shade. The sun.

A streak of yellow rapidly conquering a streak of green. Blending and separating. Children are so quick: quick to laugh, quick to brand, quick to scorn, quick to lay claim to the open space.

The thud of small feet running, running. A girl’s shriek—snaps in two. Tumbling, tumbling, the sound of a noon bell. Dry? Wet? Warm? Cold? Nothing is measured here.

An old treasure rudely broken. See how the amber color fades from its rim. Now it is the home of something dark and moist. An ant walking on a sheet of tin laid bare to the sun—crumbles. But what is an ant? Secreting, secreting; always secreting. The skin of an orange—removed as if it had been a decorous and much-valued belt. A frog, beaded and creased, moldy and throbbing—no more than a single leap in a single day.

(But at last, at last, to whom will this view belong? Will the hen, stripped of its flesh, its feathers scattered perhaps to the four corners of the earth, its bones molten and sterilized, one day speak? And what will it say? I was a hen? I had twelve chicks? One of my chicks, named Beryl, took a fall?)

Many secrets are alive here. A sharp blow delivered quicker than an eye blink. A sparrow’s eggs. A pirate’s trunk. A fisherman’s catch. A tree, bearing fruits. A bullying boy’s marbles. All that used to be is alive here.

Someone has piled up stones, making a small enclosure for a child’s garden, and planted a child’s flowers, bluebells. Yes, but a child is too quick, and the bluebells fall to the cool earth, dying and living in perpetuity.

Unusually large berries, red, gold, and indigo, sliced open and embedded in soft mud. The duck’s bill, hard and sharp and shiny; the duck itself, driven and ruthless. The heat, in waves, coiling and uncoiling until everything seeks shelter in the shade.

Sensing the danger, the spotted beetle pauses, then retraces its primitive crawl. Red fluid rock was deposited here, and now the soil is rich in minerals. On the vines, the ripening vegetables.

But what is a beetle? What is one fly? What is one day? What is anything after it is dead and gone? Another beetle will pause, sensing the danger. Another day, identical to this day … then the rain, beating the underbrush hard, causing the turtle to bury its head even more carefully. The stillness comes and the stillness goes. The sun. The moon.

Still the sounds of voices, muted and then clear, emptying and filling up, saying:

“What was the song they used to sing and made fists and pretended to be Romans?”