A Confession of Lies
No, it isn't needed: this blue sky, the two exact trees
Where they are—green ash, blue pine. The seas can rise
To within an inch of the buildings but will not,
Ever. For now, like them, my words can be trusted.
There is no need for a doubt. We will not die.
We cannot keep the woods from receding north
To a cooler horizon. Red, white, and yellow
Trash will escape our hands to go into the water.
A glowing, new coal will escape our lips and go down
Through time in the water, to come up a cool, gold
Drink. The truth: We aren't eager to die. We
Turn all our acts to good. We think and desire
Alike. Whatever we start we complete. We don't
Let our anger loose. All earth
Is as wide and dear and clean as when I was small.
Whenever I lie, I tell a truth.
Interpreters in One Language
The harbor's the dull side of foil today.
If this were theater, there would be muffled thunder.
The sky is perfectly gray, a clouded plate.
Staten Island is all black trees, Manhattan's
built on something like pyrite—a fool's slate—
asphalt, and concrete. Not far away, a ferryboat's passing,
freighting soemthing like goldenrod from painted borough to borough.
When speaking a foreign language, everything
is unreal. Anything could have been said; conversation
has no basis in fact. A word, born somewhere else,
reminds its listener of nothing intentional. Longing itself
knows just how sketchy it is. It's the best of unspeakable
paintings: here is the work of years of nearsighted souls
who came across so clearly on paper.
The question today is jellyfish in the river—why
transparent beings are not invisible. Why would
somebody want power? All the speakers longed
for something that they could control, for things
to go perfectly right for a change. No nasty surprises.
By the end of the speeches, the harbor the way it is,
all of us came to see how much we longed for surprises.
I Fail to Speak to My Earth, My Desire
Having set my heart on you, I remove it
and set it aside. You my desire,
my table, my solid ground, my own true
surface. A mouse in any corner may try
to come out. A wind may cool and blow
us askew. You my desire are not my
property. You may not ever be so.
You my love, my world. Now, have I set my heart on
you? A trace, a kiss, a print, a small brown
scratch: Do you have a clue? Kind as you are,
I am proud or— Nothing in the whole great house
will show where the heart is now. Nor
will the mouse find comforting crumbs. As if, my ground,
I were still waiting to be shown what it is I am for.
© 1992 Elizabeth Macklin. All rights reserved. Audio recording by Jonathan Blunk 2001.
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