Odd Mercy
I kick a piece of leather; except for the claw
it's mostly sky. Let the silkweed bury it
and let the silkweed bury the silkweed. There isn't
a particle of life there, that's if leather
can have a life. Silkweed sends its seed
to cover the body—there is grease; there are
feathers on the claw. Juice, I think,
juice of the cat, juice of the silkweed. The pods
are empty, there is no cream, only a little
white left over, dry and fluffy. Let the
nail bury the nail, let the helmet
of someone named Knute bury the helmet of someone
named Si or Cyrus. Inside the bliss is gone,
the mind is empty; it has moved from one form
of grasping to another. I lift it up,
it is a kind of football, something between
a dry tongue and a ball. I execute
a perfect dropkick, claw after claw—there still
are dropkicks in Pennsylvania. It could be
the self growing more aloof that gives me the courage,
something I can hide behind. I still
freeze when I see a corpse, the spiteful dead
imitating the living, still lying there
with a hand between their thighs, or a paw lifted up
against the light. Let the clogged-up neck
bury the clogged-up neck, let the wristbone
bury the wristbone. If there is someone named Si
let there be someone named Cyrus, let him run
like Knute ran. In my thirteenth and fourteenth year
I spent my afternoons at the Schenley Oval
running until it got dark. I was alone
on the ancient track.—Was it a mile and a quarter?—
I know the empty stands were still intact
the way they were when horses rounded the bend.
The palings were even intact. Let the dark boy
with the long face come and stand at the railing, let him
comb his hair, the part on the left, let him
wipe away the sweat, then look at the moon
while he waits for his father; he will spend his lifetime
waiting. If there is a brown seed on his shoulder,
if it came from the plant beside the fence, it is almost
lighter than life and came by air to land
as the current decided. He reaches for a twig
and breaks it off, the pods are perfect, they are
like round canoes with graceful prows and ribbing
that holds the silk together. He had vertigo—
from running, he thought—sometimes he stopped on a sidewalk
or under a tree to feel it—it was the pleasure
he kept to himself. I still have that pleasure. Who is
the football, he or I? Who is the cat?
Am I or he? The "son of man," what is that
in the other writing? He has neither a Sears
not a Posturepedic. Let me be the father
and bury myself. Follow me. We are
sitting on wooden boxes. We are singing
without lungs! Let the sea horse bury
the sea horse, let him die standing up. The foxes
have condominiums, the birds have silkweed
but my poor son doesn't have a sofa, he
and I are snoring, don't tell a soul. I can't
at my age start a second life, where will I
find another wife—at the airport?—how can I
stand in line for a job, how can I fight
for air again, what if I had to buy
new furniture? There is a cat inside. I love him
for dying. There is a way of kicking a suitcase
in front of the agents, one foot back and onto
the scale, there are tags all over, there are
books inside and underwear, the cat
is in a rage, there is silkweed, it drifts
like insulation over the brushes, it falls
like snow in the farthest pockets, there is toothpaste
and Neutrogena and Solex; there is a clock
I bought in Siena, it is a German clock,
a Peter, with three stars and a kind of forties'
face; it ticks like an ancient bomb, the size
is perfect, the paint is a little chipped, it is
a second heart for the cat and after a day
off odd mercy another one for me.
(c) 1995 by Gerald Stern. All rights reserved.
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