II
KEOUGH HALL
November 9, 2016
University of Notre Dame
“deplorables
knocking
at your door”
he shouted
the day
after—“build
the wall—
we’re
building
a wall
around
your room!”
minutes
felt
like hours
“cowards!”
you managed,
catching
a glimpse
by cracking
your door:
there were three
of them
scurrying
down the hall,
their faces
obscured . . .
your back
against
the wall, you slid
to the floor—
“Hail Mary . . .”
you began
whispering
to yourself
and back
they came their
laughter
louder
minutes
felt
like hours
and the thumping
in your chest—
his fist
pounding the door
for Gregory Jenn (’18)
THE INEVITABLE
I envy that tree.
It barely feels.
Envy even more
this stone
that hasn’t felt
for ages. Tell me
of an affliction
more acute
than breathing,
of something worse
than knowing
that we are, yet
knowing nothing,
unsure of which
path to take.
And what to make
of this sense
we’re on a wheel,
uncanny hunch
of bleaker things
to come, the only truth
one day we die?
We endure this life,
shadows, what we
ignore and hardly
suspect, skin that glows
like a shimmering piece
of fruit, visions
of a wreath
beside a tomb, all
the while without
a clue
of where we began,
where we go.
after Rubén Darío’s “Lo fatal”
TO GEORGE W. BUSH
2006
Should I quote the good
book you claim to know;
or perhaps our late bearded
bard—might these be ways
of reaching you? Primitive
modern, simple complex—
one part wily astute
animal, three parts owner
of a ranch: conglomeration
is what you are, poised
for another incursion.
Lean, strong specimen
of your breed, polite you
hardly read when not
in a saddle, or spreading manure.
You see a building in flames
as vital, progress a spewing
volcano. And where you point
and place your bullet
you stake the future—yours
and ours. And so:
not so fast. O there’s
no doubting the heft
of this nation: it moves it
shifts—a tremor travels
down to the tip
of the continent; you raise
your voice and it’s
bellowing we hear (The sky
is mine), stars in the east
sun in the west. People
are clothes, their cars,
Sunday attire at church,
a harbor lady lighting
the journey with a torch.
But America, sir,
is North, Central,
and South—delicate
wing of a beetle,
thundering sheet
of water (our cubs
are crossing
over). And though,
O man of bluest eye
you believe your truth,
it is not—you are not
the world
after Rubén Darío’s “A Roosevelt”
TENOCHTITLAN, 1523
an erasaure of Andrés Montoya
WIND & RAIN
And that day years ago—no
umbrella, the stroll
lasting four hours, your socks
soaked—doesn’t matter
you thought: crossing, re-crossing
the Thames on foot sheer
pleasure, coming upon
Leicester Square, that throng . . .
—What happened?
to a petite lady wearing glasses, but
before she could speak
a slick wall of coats
slowly parts and there
he was: plum-colored,
rolling past on a stretcher . . .
Moments later they cover his face.
The rest of your walk
a blur . . . —I think his heart
gave, said a man wearing
a tie, but those weren’t the ones
that spoke to you, still do:
poor chap, softly, her light-blue
hair in your eyes . . . and his wife.
I saw the ring. expecting him home
for supper
1985
Long and black, the streaks
of gray, aflutter in the light
wind as she prepares to tell
her story at the Federal Building:
reaching into a tattered sack
she pulls out a doll
missing an eye, balding—
singed face smudged with soot
from the smoke her home took in
as her village was being shelled.
Next she retrieves what’s left
of a book—a few pages
the borders brown, coming
apart in her hands: hesitant,
she raises one, starts to read aloud:
por la mañana sube el sol y calienta el día
la tierra nos da dónde vivir y qué comer
la vaca nos da leche para beber y hacer mantequilla
It’s her daughter’s lesson
the poem she read to her
the day they struck—
(in the morning the sun rises and warms the day
the earth provides a place to live and what to eat
the cow gives us milk to drink and churn butter with . . . )
. . . mid-way through, her voice begins
to shake—her words
like refugees exposed to the night shiver,
freeze: silence
swallows us all . . .
. . . her words, drifting
casualities,
gather and huddle
in my throat.
San Francisco
POEM WITH A PHRASE OF ISHERWOOD
2010, Arizona
Cruelty is sensual and stirs you
Governor, your name echoing the sludge
beneath your cities’ streets. It spurs
the pleasure you take
whenever your mouth nears
a mic, defending your law . . . your wall.
Cruelty is sensual and stirs you
Governor, we’ve noticed your face
its contortions and delicate sneer
times you’re asked to cut
certain ribbons—visit a dusty place
you’d rather avoid, out of the heat.
Cruelty is sensual and stirs you
Governor, the vision of your state
something you treasure in secret
though we’ve caught a glimpse
in the jowls of your sheriff:
bulldog who doubles as your heart.
BAY AREA RAPID TRANSIT
Her hair: cropped short as a punk’s, same
gray as these connected cars; her pullover’s blue
snug, the few holes along her sleeves
flesh-colored sores. She’s cursing the crooks
at City Hall—then go back to where you are from
he says, off in a huff at Powell. On her feet now
she spots another facing the light-streaked black,
crosses the aisle, sits beside him. The puffy skin
beneath her eyes: pinkish—I hate this place, she says
holding an envelope in his face—could you
help me with this address they cut
me off those boys what they did to that girl
outside my room on the stairs . . . And the joints
of her fingers: bulbs—I was you know
a typist in New York . . . O, she says, what’ll I
do do you know this address what should I
tell them I swear sometimes
if maybe I just—her voice dissolving,
mingling with the long sharp whistle
the sound of the rails as the convoy
begins to brake and then the sliding
doors and steps off the train
DECEMBER 31, 1965
The hoped-for words went out
And so, as dusk settled over the embattled
Not since the first winter of World War I
The idea of a holiday from death
As if in anticipation of the lull
Throughout the world, hopes rose
Pope Paul VI exhorted
President Johnson steadfastly refused
“They are outsiders, just as I am,” snapped Truman
The foursome, accused of burning their cards
The Army meanwhile made clear that dissent was for civilians
Howe was sentenced to two years
In the bitter Harlem riots of 1964, as in the Watts
Last week, under a 1901 New York law
Epton was no ordinary agitator
Long before the riots, according to a Negro detective who infiltrated the group
As he made the rounds of Jersey City’s sprawling Medical
“If there is a toe in town I haven’t stepped on
“City jobs around here were just plain patronage plums
“A man doesn’t carry that much fat around and live
Wrapped perennially in a white linen suit
At one celebrated Boykinalia
There was salmon from Quebec
The voters’ love for Boykin ran out in the 1962
He is now 80 and after all those lovin’ years has an ailing heart
A year before he was arrested for the nightrider slaying
Klansman Collie Leroy Wilkins was riding around with a sawed-off
Judge Allgood last week sentenced Wilkins to a year and a day
TIME Magazine
THE MAN AND THE WOLF
His heart the texture of a rose,
his tongue a swath of sky,
his manner delicate—now
chatting with what many call
a beast: the look in the eyes rabid,
black: on the skirts of the village
devoured sheep and shepherd alike.
Men skilled with iron were routed.
Fangs shredded hunting dogs
like baby lamb. So out he went
looking for his den, found him
outside it, from where the animal
lunged at the sight of him, then saw
the hand rise, heard him say:
“Peace be with you, brother wolf.”
The mammal knew that gesture,
snapped out of it and froze:
“Oh, it’s you.” “Why,”
asked the man, “must you lead
this life? The blood your snout
spills; the grief and terror
you mete out; peasants sobbing,
who are children of God . . .
Does this please you? Are you
from hell, or perhaps consumed
by some eternal ire?” And the wolf,
subdued, said: “Winter is hard
“and hunger worse in a freezing
forest that yields nothing to eat.
It’s true: I looked for livestock
“to feed on, and did, and ate
shepherds too. As for blood,
the hunter on his horse gripping
“his metal pursuing boar, bear,
and deer—sheds more. I’ve seen scores
of them inflict wounds, torture
“God’s creatures. And hunger
is not what drives them to hunt.”
To which the man responded: “Evil
exists in humans. We are born
with sin. But the simple soul of a beast
is pure. From this day on you’ll have
enough to eat. And you will leave
the people of this land, and their flocks,
alone. May God appease that side
of you.” “Okay, it’s a deal.”
“As a gesture of faith extend
your paw—let’s shake on it.”
The wolf did as asked and lifted
his foot. The man wrapped his
fingers around it, gently squeezed.
They headed for the village. People
could hardly believe their eyes: the wolf
strode behind the man in the robe
like a family dog, his head bowed.
Every man, woman, and child
came closer, until the whole village
had gathered in the plaza where
the man began to speak: “Let me
introduce a new neighbor,” he said,
pointing to the wolf with an open
hand. “Fear him not. He is
our enemy no more. In return,
I’m going to ask that each of us
do our part and feed him. He is,
after all, a creature of God.”
The village responded as one:
“So be it!” The wolf raised
his head in acknowledgement,
moving his tail from side to side,
disappeared through the gates
of a convent, the man ahead of him.
For a time the wolf was at peace
in that place. His ears would fill
with psalms—his eyes with tears.
He learned how to move with grace,
to play pranks in the kitchen.
When the man whispered his prayers,
the wolf would pass his tongue across
his sandals. Out into the street
he’d go, through the valley, over hills,
into homes, where people gave him things
to eat. To them he seemed a docile hound.
And then the man had to leave
for a time. The sweet wolf, the good
and gentle wolf vanished and went
back into the hills. The howling began
again. Once more people were filled
with fear, villages nearby with dread.
Weapons and valor were useless, the rage
never letting up, as if something
burned, smoldered inside the beast.
The day the man returned, villagers
sought him out, wept their complaints
about the suffering inflicted—that
infamous creature was at it again.
A shadow passed over the man’s face.
He headed for the hills to track
him down—that butcher of a wolf.
He found him at his cave. “In the name
of the Father, who sees it all, what
have you got to say for yourself?!”
As if in pain, the animal spoke,
his mouth foaming, his eyes nearly
swollen shut. “Don’t come any closer . . .
Peace and calm were my masters
these days. Even with you gone
I visited the village. When given
scraps to eat, I chewed, swallowed
in silence, with gratitude.
But I began to see, in many homes,
how people treat each other,
embers of greed, intolerance, lies
glowing subtly in countless faces.
The weak were losers, the cruel winners.
Brother made war on brother. Male
and female were like dog and bitch,
and then they began to beat me,
considered me weak for licking
their hands and feet. I believed
you: all of creation were family—
men my siblings, oxen too, the stars
my sisters, my brothers worms.
But they picked on me, drove
me away. Their laughing was like
scalding water, re-awakening
a beast—suddenly a ‘bad’ wolf
is what I was, yet better than most
of them. And so the struggle
to survive took over: to defend myself,
to feed myself, like the bear does,
like the boar, who, in order to live,
must kill. So let me remain here,
wild and free. And you, my friend,
back to your people, your good
and tender deeds.” The man
didn’t say a word. Deep
was his gaze. Then he walked away,
tears on his cheek. His heart,
touched with desolation, offered
a prayer only the wind in the forest
could hear, carrying it skyward.
after Rubén Darío’s “Los motivos del lobo”
LIU MINGHE SPEAKS
A hyena upon an animal still breathing, he questioned me
I was told it would last for days
His voice clutched my frozen heart
My lungs burned my temples throbbed—night revolving my eyes
A silent tribe of spiders began spinning a web in my brain
Bells occasionally howled—homeless spirits endlessly moaning
I was handcuffed to a window, so I stood, or hung, from my wrists
Several of my lower teeth left me during my visit
To open, with a withered hand, the lid of a coffin, and climb inside
At first, I didn’t butter my hair
I breakfasted on air, on rock, on coal, on iron
My clothes were rotting rags, my bread soggy with rain
I ate by lowering my head into a bowl
I ate fever with my watery vegetables
For sixteen months my hands and feet were shackled
I slept on boards, or on the ground—a book
Les Poètes Maudits my pillow, my only companion
My skin was ravaged with mud, my armpits full of worms
Enormous province whose sky is flecked with fire and mud
Weighing on me like a lid
Pouring down days as dark as nights
Sometimes the rain mimicked the bars
Funeral processions—no drums, no music—filed slowly inside me
Hope wept, stabbing its stalk in my skull
Sometimes I saw in the sky endless beaches
I tried to invent new flowers, new tongues, new stars
Fear and suffering evaporating in the air
The hallucination of words
On my hospital bed that smell comes back to me still
I have dyed my hair black to erase those years
HELEN SPEAKS
June, 2017
Tonight I will sit in the dark
people the wall of my sorrow
Roberto was a busser I was a server
he came to visit an aunt and stayed
he started talking and I tried
to ignore him he kept on talking
smiling and smiling and smiling
full of smiles and careful words
we got married had three kids
settled into a comfortable life
I wanted to understand the madness
the sad slouch of justice
we met in ’98 in Fort Wayne
years and years went by until
Eddie’s Steak Shed in Granger
we lived in Mishawaka
your husband is being detained
because he’s a fugitive they said
my husband’s not running
from you you didn’t come
knocking on our door I said
he came to you he’d been told
to leave in 2000 I was pregnant
and sick and so again he stayed
he’s been moved from Wisconsin
to Lousiana and more recently
El Paso Texas one night they
suddenly told him it was time
to get his stuff put him in the back
of a van sped for the border
he was dropped off forced
to walk to Mexico the children
eight-year-old Demetri fourteen-year-old
Jasmine sixteen-year-old Maria
are having a difficult time
since he’s been gone the restaurant
has received threatening calls
and angry letters pack your bags
and go to Mexico said one
earlier today staring in the mirror:
your skin is bitter like suffering
what have you done voting for trump
with Andrés Montoya
ACADEMIA ESCOLAR
Managua, the ’40s
Her look
could undo. Not
the most soothing thing I could say . . .
The day they said we’d
be let out early
a bubbly mood spread
among us as we planned
the afternoon—impromptu
stick ball, that dusty lot . . .
The Academy’s front gate
clicked
shut behind us
when someone saw her
behind a car, arms
folded across her chest.
I had no reason to, but
that unexpected sight
made me flinch—
an eight-year-old child
frightened. Think
about it. A boy.
Afraid of his mother.
for my father
THE CENTURY
Episode two with Peter Jennings
—Adolph, as a young man,
was denied entry to Art School.
What could be worse than a bitter
mediocre artist with a plan?
In the second segment you see
a physicist at twenty-four, the moving
picture a grainy gray—he nibbles
a strawberry, sips a flute of cava, swings
in his moments of free time
a racket, his stint at Los Alamos
intense. The Manhattan Project.
Today another face—captured,
bruised—on Good Morning America:
the screen says Lopez and I see a trace
of him: my brother at seventeen,
those postcards home from Camp
Pendleton, the scribbled pride
of his “ass-kicking platoon.” Reading
them I was following him: ten-year-old
as future marine—like chanting
oblivious, the rich syllables
of a word, a slogan
a country, that man’s name.
1999