Red Eft
A helicopter hovers
toward
white sky, along the shore,
in
close surveillance of the beach
on
which we lie among so many,
with
not much left to say, sand rippling
toward
us from the sea.
What
do you see, not see? If I open
my
eyes again, I’ll find you
lying
still, or reading, sea glass
gathered
in a heap, sunglasses
hiding
what you’re thinking. And while
swimmers
call out to friends who rise
to
shake the sand from blankets,
this
darkness—almost a deep red—pulses
slowly,
like the surf.
Somewhere
in a Golden Guide,
I
read about Red Eft,
salamander
mountain-spawned,
a
small life, streak of blood.
Never
seen one, never will. And now
the
helicopter’s back, black shadow
drowning
out the ocean
—Crumpled
Styrofoam, dried kelp,
a
horseshoe crab’s unlucky armor.
How
long will we lie here, struck dumb,
paralyzed
by heat, unwavering
sun
and pulse of waves, so much
unsaid,
withheld between us?
Nothing
gained, I change position, find
my
arm is touching yours.
I
may just open up my eyes.
I
may just say a word or two.
Instead,
I only drift away
and
think about red eft, red eft,
small
life, a fading coolness
that
you lift, cupped in your palm,
as
you walk across white dunes, and paper
blows
up toward the sky—
A mirage,
a
shimmer of heat above white noise.
Suicide of an Old Man
New York Times, December 7, 1879
The
facts are few. It happened in Elmira.
The
laborer, well-to-do—an immigrant,
or
not, we’ll never know—was touched by fire,
a fit (what else to call it?), that turned
saint,
sinner,
or soul between, David Fitzgerald
toward
his end. What labor had been his?
What
symptoms or behavior had been herald?
To
what force did he finally answer, “Yes,”
seeking
the means—smashed bottle, carving knife,
straight
razor freshly rinsed—to cut his throat
to-night from ear to ear, taking the life
he
must have valued once? (Or maybe not.)
Insanity’s no answer, though the
text he
features
in records his age: Near sixty.
Previously unpublished
The Yankee Clipper
For my adoptive father Carmine, Southside Hospital, October
2000
I
tilt your chin, blade gliding in its pass
across
smooth skin, tracks edged with shaving cream,
bed
raised, your pillow white, smeared window glass
bleached
by October sunlight. Razor’s rim
dabbed
clean, I trim your mustache, tiny fleece-
hairs
falling. Outside, dead leaves—copper, flame,
brass,
verdigris—still cling to branches high
over
the cars of 27A,
Main
Street, Bay Shore, no ocean-view in sight.
I
towel off your face. You look years younger,
i.v.
measured digitally, your weight
past
guessing, weeks since fortified by hunger.
Can
I swing the tray out, switch the light
off,
on as day wanes? Don’t you lift a finger.
“Can’t
wait to get out.” Your iron-gray hair’s
gone
white, all white as snow. By now, the cars
flick
on their headlights, traffic thinning out.
The
Yankee Clipper was an s.o.b.,
Newsweek informs us as I read aloud
excerpts
for entertainment. Skeptically,
you
listen, straw-slurps, shake your head, or nod
when
I recount heroics, Italy
his
father’s birthplace, struggling fisherman
who
found the day’s catch sickening a son
meant
not for boats but bats. Eyes hard, he’d stub
the
dirt with one foot, step up to the plate.
He
wasn’t perfect, either? Join the club.
But
now, you’re tired and need to sleep—at eight,
all
visitors must leave, and in the Sub-
way
Series soon to come, the Mets will bite
the
dust in five games. Gore will win and lose.
DiMaggio?
“No one could fill his shoes.”
From The Trials of Edgar Poe and Other Poems (Story Line Press, 2010)
Ned Balbo’s third book, The Trials of Edgar Poe and Other Poems
(Story Line Press), received the 2012 Poets’ Prize, and the 2010 Donald Justice
Prize selected by judge A. E. Stallings. Lives
of the Sleepers (University of Notre Dame Press, 2005), received the Ernest
Sandeen Poetry Prize and a ForeWord
Book of the Year Gold Medal. Galileo’s
Banquet (Washington Writers’ Publishing House, 1998) shared the Towson
University Prize for Literature. The recipient of three Maryland Arts Council
grants, Balbo has received the Robert Frost Foundation Poetry Award and the
John Guyon Literary Nonfiction Prize. He is co-winner of the 2013 Willis
Barnstone Translation Prize for his translations of Baudelaire’s “Le Mort joyeux.” More poems in Iowa Review, Valparaiso Poetry Review, and Poetry.
-- Ned Balbo
No comments:
Post a Comment