The Laws of Primogeniture
My grandson has my father's mouth
with its salty sayings
and my grandfather's crooked ear
which heard the soldiers coming.
He has the pale eyes of the cossack
who saw my great-great-grandmother
in the woods, then wouldn't stop
looking.
And see him now, pushing
his bright red firetruck towards
a future he thinks he's inventing
all by himself.
Vermilion
Pierre Bonnard would enter
the museum with a tube of paint
in his pocket and a sable brush.
Then violating the sanctity
of one of his own frames
he'd add a stroke of vermilion
to the skin of a flower.
Just so I stopped you
at the door this morning
and licking my index finger, removed
an invisible crumb
from your vermilion mouth. As if
at the ritual moment of departure
I had to show you still belonged to me.
As if revision were
the purest form of love.
An Early Afterlife
". . . a wise man in time of peace, shall make the necessary preparations for
war." —Horace
Why don't we say goodbye right now
in the fallacy of perfect health
before whatever is going to happen
happens. We could perfect our parting,
like those characters in On the Beach
who said farewell in the shadow
of the bomb as we sat watching,
young and holding hands at the movies.
We could use the loving words
we otherwise might not have time to say.
We could hold each other for hours
in a quintessential dress rehearsal.
The we would just continue
for however many years were left.
The ragged things that are coming next—
arteries closing like rivers silting over,
or rampant cells stampeding us to the exit—
would be like postscripts to our lives
and wouldn't matter. And we would bask
in an early afterlife of ordinary days,
impervious to the inclement weather
already in our long-range forecast.
Nothing could touch us. We'd never
have to say goodbye again.
(c) 1998 by Linda Pastan. All rights reserved.
|
