Readings in a lost November

 

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