From the diary of Anne Frank,
you remember few names but long hiding days,
muffled silence, ghostly shades,
suppressed within walls.
At the age of fifteen, dates abruptly ended 鈥
such a brief witness 鈥
On the journey of Anna Karenina,
you foretell 鈥 name was doomed.
Beauty, brain and grace could not offset
the hierarchy of a husband鈥檚 family name 鈥
Name 鈥 a subject to fame
overshadowed saneness.
Snowflakes fall, turning the land鈥檚 dark espresso
white. Here the barista
knows your name, your chosen milk.
In nooks that serve up nothing to do
people cup their warm mugs like amulets,
their faces declaring
my cares haven鈥檛 followed me.
Winter sun on wooden tables.
The sound of steam serenading the froth.
Rowing the dump鈥檚 plastic swells,
children drop lines baited with magnets
for scrap, hooked
and tossed in a basket. Flies stick to unwashed dishes,
boys sort circuit boards and chargers,
and a bulging pregnant woman burns rubber
off tangled copper.
Just beyond the hill is the blue sea, white terns
and our waxed boat, trolling for sailfish
without a strike. We stop at reef鈥檚 edge to drink beer
and jig for snapper.
鈥淲e鈥檙e getting murdered, Dad. We are getting so-oo murdered.鈥
鈥淗arry Bennet lived here
before the toy store;
now he鈥檚 over there,鈥 Dad said,
thumbing toward the graveyard.
Newman鈥檚 Toys housed
petrified pink and orange rabbit鈥檚 feet,
kites with wide bloodshot eyes 鈥
peering madmen,
seductive stick candy soliciting
by the register, scarlet paper ribbon
punctuated with black dots,
spooled through and under
the hammer of my first cap gun,
quickly took up incautious
trigger guard twirling.
鈥淒id you come for something something?鈥
It sounds Asian to my tin ear: sow-jow?
Everything is leaf, he said,
being Goethe;
but being Goethe, the words he said
came out quite different:
alles ist Blatt,
is what his trusty Eckermann heard,
though some say misheard
and what the great man really said was:
alles ist platt;
which might have sparked displaced debate
in generative phonology
while setting back for years to come
our mental grasp
of nature鈥檚 metamorphic plants
with shapes as shifting as the clouds
that Howard sought to name
In the end, it all comes down to one of our world鈥檚 most abused and vanishing resources: privacy. I happen to believe that romance should be the preserve of the lovers involved and no one else, which means I鈥檝e already sullied my own valentines. Ah well, there鈥檚 no sense in preserving them now. Where is that box of matches?
