The Monongahela Book
of Hours
i.
Ahead, the path grown over and lightly
breezeblown
like an illuminated Psalter embellished
by the trembling
hand of a novice monk. Horror vacui
drives nature
still, as it drove rows of cowled shoulders
bent in the scriptorium to fill the vellum's
flank
with hatchings of azur d'outreme and orpiment.
On this day's page under matins,
cite the redwinged
blackbirds' epaulets ablaze in preened display,
the sapling crowns a loggia from which the
nesting
aristocracy dropped alms of song onto your
path.
ii.
Penitent, what purpose to your wandering?
Recall the lowered afternoon along an interstate
neither here nor there, a convoy of trucks
ahead
so it was not until you almost were upon
them
that you hit your brakes and, swerving,
missed a mother goose leading her unfledged
flock
across the median and straight into your
lane.
You missed, but in the mirror watched the
rigs behind
bear down and scatter them easily as leaves,
as feathers, into the oncoming lights.
iii.
They say the mother's death is hardest.
Since her body
brought yours into being, burying or burning
it
repeats the fleshy severance you can't remember,
though your limbic system bears like an
ultraviolet tattoo
birth's chemical shock, when adrenaline
rushed through
your infant blood at rates beyond what any
afterstress
could raise. In death's black light, those
ink pricks glare.
Is your loss the long-suspended echo of
her emptiness
when her labor ended and you lay there,
the anchoring
cord was cut, and you breathed the air?
iv.
This is the hour of the rainbow trout,
netted
from the market's tank and flayed alive
before us
at the customer's request. The fish, two
livid wrists,
stiffen then beat in the plastic bag passed
across the counter.
None of us seems bothered: the butcher
starts
boning another order, the woman whose basket
carries the trout to checkout argues with
her kids.
They want to watch the butcher longer.
Behind them, I catch myself wondering what
she'll make
with the fish still mechanically pumping
their gills.
v.
Small towns in the old mill country, everyone
seems
wrong somehow. The damage often clear but
relatively slight:
missing fingers, a limp. In others, deeper
harm emerges
through a slack mouth or gaze trained on
sights beyond.
Christian fellowship is advertised, though
churches
outnumber visible occupants. If you park
and walk through,
the few stare like you came from the moon
or some other
untouchable satellite, and all your own
oddness
quivers up coldly magnetized, the way iron
oxide
threaded through a rock will make a compass
needle shake.
vi.
Above my bed, my father hung a mobile he'd
made:
a dozen mobius loops suspended on sewing
thread,
colors painted on each paper face, but graduated
toward the ends so I couldn't see where
a strip's measure
stopped before he'd twisted it into the
shape he said
fell on its side to mean infinity.
At night they slowly
turned, and I imagined their spirals winding
back
before my body, its germ, before the first
proteins
unclasping from their helix to divide, to
the spark
struck in a single cell before its replication
starts.
vii.
Under glass, my cancer's cells are beautiful:
stained with isotopes, magnified until
they blossom in the eyepiece
like a field of dark pupiled anemones, gazing
back
in flushed, expansive love at me, who made
them.
How petals translucent as these lasered
tissues
flattened on the slide can seed themselves
and turn the drying
inside of a womb shock red with immortality!
I called longing for eternal life the ego's
vanity,
never realized how the urge roots in our
pulp, willing
to trade a whole body's promise for one
rogue cell's bid to last.
viii.
The professor began his lecture with the
"fantasy cycle."
Fantasy cycle artists drew on apocalyptic
themes,
he said, and the fantasy cycle mind was
oppressed
by uncertainty. "Cycle" made sense
to me, as though
history were a mobius loop on which the
past,
if traced by a finger, turned out to occupy
the same plane
as the present. Then he scrawled it on
the board:
fin de siecle. Calling it the age's
"end" seemed wrong, as if
the spirit of a century were just a passing
force
that died, and not the ever-present ghost
of time.
ix.
Impluvia set in the courtyards of the mansions
built for Romans at Herculaneum and Pompeii
caught rain-flow rushing through the open
roofs
and stored it for the family's use. Each
household
worshipped its ancestral gods, who craved
fresh water in a bowl and newpicked fruit
laid out across their altars. Where did
the Lar go, then,
when Vesuvius silted each dwelling in ash?
What lives inside me, nosing with my cells'
inherited
intelligence the smell of damp asphalt
through a dusty screen?
x.
(after
a fresco from Stabiae, near Pompeii, now
in the Museo Nazionale, Naples)
Flora turns from human hours to green eternity
without a glance to see who follows. I follow.
Her painted hand curves to pluck the blossom
from an herb.
Flora, how did you survive the lava's kiss
before it clenched to eighteen centuries'
embrace by rock?
Look at you, unmussed, cool as a museum-going
girl in a gauzy dress.
Turn and let me praise the flowers you've
carried all this while.
Or at least let me walk behind you to find
if the rosemary you've crushed beneath
your heel
clarifies the air beyond time with its astringent
tang.
xi.
As if we needed more reminders that life
plunges its arrow
straight through us, the infant girl, a
few days old and still
charged with her mother's hormones, begins
to bleed,
a diminutive period as her snail-sized uterus
sheds
before falling dormant for a decade. All
the eggs
she will ever have are already double-clutched
within her.
An industry of pastel babywear tries to
camouflage
our beginning like this, implicated, sticky
and sexual. We want
to sweeten it, and sweet it is, though not
buttercup sweet, not
sky-blue sweet, but sweet as a dark river's
cantillation.
xii.
(Ukiyo-e)
Hiroshige, a minor bureaucrat in the shogun's
retinue
charged with delivering a gift horse to
the emperor,
traveled the Tokaido road in 1832, sketching
views
he later printed from woodblocks-simple
images
of lumbermen guiding their logs along the
river
or of a tax collector, stopped at the Futagawa
teahouse,
entertained by geishas. His prints translate
the world
to floating dream with little fuss. Pilgrims
ford streams
with the aid of loinclothed bearers, and
women hold parasols
half-shut to shelter their horsehair wigs
from snow.
xiii.
In early snow, a hunter stood by the carcass
of a whitetail buck and looked again into
its barely
clouded eye. What he watched receding in
the pupil
that had locked on his and held him still
a full
five beats before he pulled the trigger,
he would not tell.
Now the deer was a winter's meat.
When he came from cleaning it to warm his
hands
and kissed me, I couldn't recognize his
smell.
Like the bride in a folk tale, I woke to
find
I had married the forest, married the deer.
xiv.
And if there were a Hiroshige of the mill
towns?
The visions closest to his clarity are postcards
printed when tourists came frequently enough
to warrant souvenirs of local sights. So
we have
snapshots of "Monessen Bridge" and "Belle
Vernon Glass"
tinted in aqueous pastel. The blockprints
are timeless;
even if the artist never saw such people,
his images
conjure up a floating world. But photographs
are full of time.
Merciless smiling shadows of the lost,
the last "Mill Ball Team"
before Pittsburgh fell to subsidized Japanese
steel.
xv.
Today's news covers a woman blankly confessing
she drowned her five children one after
another
because she was a bad mother and had
ruined them.
A reporter narrates infanticide: common
in ancient Rome,
and in some places even now girls are routinely
left to starve.
The oldest son, seven, surprised her holding
the infant under
and tried to save his sister. What was
this mother's act
but a kind of suicide, epic in proportion,
that missed
its mark? She couldn't simply fall upon
a sword,
for if she vanished who would look after
the children?
xvi.
Studying the capsuled whorls his microscope
revealed
inside a slice of cork, an early scientist
recalled those chambers
where each monk retires in solitude, and
called the wood's
internal architecture cells. So
the virgin worker bee
who strokes ten thousand flowers in her
six-week life
transmutes their dust to honey in a hexagonal
cell.
Honey will preserve a corpse but can't
immortalize
as cancer does, turning some cells
deathless at the body's cost.
Terrorist cells, churning out daughter
cells.
Say that slowly and you hear
daughter sails
xvii.
All day you've belonged to others, others
worn so by their own work
they could not, if they wanted,
see how they wasted you. Let them go.
Tonight, the air drapes the year's first
bloodwarm mantle
across your shoulders. Beside you, the dogwood
balances each cup of its porcelain service.
To live, you must follow Flora as the Roman
painter saw her,
turning her face from time to green
eternity. Near Vesuvius she nurses the waxing
petals, and keeps the six secrets of the
honeybee.
xviii.
Spring evening, seven o'clock.
Goldfinch tweezing thistle from the neighbors'
feeder.
From next door, the clatter of dishes and
an argument
trailing off as their children set the table
for supper.
A coal train going through, slow by its
sound, not stopping.
Later, a walk with the dog.
The yards on either side of the alley sparked
by fireflies.
Washing his car, the man on the corner has
left us a gully of suds.
Muted television murmur. Honeysuckle.
Porch gardens where tomato seedlings spring
from tomato cans.
xix.
Spark struck in a single cell…and in that
suspended reverie
while, without our knowing it, the haploid
nuclei engaged,
it seemed I saw the earth's face from a
long way off,
its zona pellucida a nimbus sheltering the
fusing life.
Whose beginning had I half-dreamt, nights
below the draft-stirred mobius?
I thought it only mine, until the hour
when I strained
my ears to the colloquy of voices cloistered
in my cells,
a trace I knew to follow not backwards any
longer but
forward through my daughter's first breaths
as she slid
embodied from our very flesh, and began
to cry.
xx.
(Monongahela Nocturne)
Flora summons the storm: Come tree bender,
blustering
flattener of wild grasses, cloudracer, you
who make
the ivy rattle its dusted leaves in thirst.
Bring water's
course to the schoolyard and the narrow
glen
bedded with whitetails, to the road, the
track, the shotgun
shacks, to the pool of tailings dabbled
by ducks,
and when you leave us at midnight, leave
stars overhead
trembling as notes in the lullaby: diamond
above me,
diamond below, diamonds at all four corners,
anthracite night, and carbon the body
of miners.
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