the room is warm, and I lean against a
window,
sipping apple tea and listening to an essay
that I have heard before. it’s a little
different now,
better, I think, though it is hard to say; it’s
always
hard to say with readings, when the words
flow and rush and disappear, refusing to
let you
re-enter; they have already moved beyond
you
and into the next poem. one poet dances
up
and down the alphabet, lingering on A for
pages
which feels appropriate, since A is
important,
and K is really only good for kissing. well,
no —
but it could be and is for a few minutes
until
we break for chocolate and glazed donuts,
then return. the new poet sings, slides up
and
down melody lines, and the harmonies are
buried;
you could pretend there were only
melodies
if you cared to. but we know better; we
know
that she takes old films and projects them
onto
women’s bodies; educational films, and
one of fish
hangs in my living room over the
television.
I think my fish are watching the
photograph.
this is a poet who works in layers. the last
takes a
piece of a novel; she draws a map on the
board,
and tells us who and what and where and
why
the girl in her story is diving in the water. I
am
listening to her story, and the words are
sliding by
me and like the girl in her story, I am
getting lost
in the past, in the words, in the sun on the
water
pulling words up out of the girl who is
losing herself,
getting lost in the past, in her father and
the boat
and the words and the darkness
underneath and the fish;
it always comes back to the fish, doesn’t
it?
*****
11/15/2001