Selected Poems - James Tate Wesleyan Poetry Series

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the chilled earth where

      you hang out. I think

      you are doomed to become

      symbols for us that we

      will never call by name.

      But what rifles through

      our heads is silence, one

      either beyond or below

      whatever it is that we do

      know. We know by heart,

      don’t we? We’ve never

      learned. And we bring what

      we have known to you, now,

      tonight. Open your home

      to us, Rodina. Kiss

      our brains. Tell us that

      we are not drunk, and

      that we may spend

      our summers with you.

       for my father, 1922–1944

      Your face did not rot

      like the others—the co-pilot,

      for example, I saw him

      yesterday. His face is corn-

      mush: his wife and daughter,

      the poor ignorant people, stare

      as if he will compose soon.

      He was more wronged than Job.

      But your face did not rot

      like the others—it grew dark,

      and hard like ebony;

      the features progressed in their

      distinction. If I could cajole

      you to come back for an evening,

      down from your compulsive

      orbiting, I would touch you,

      read your face as Dallas,

      your hoodlum gunner, now,

      with the blistered eyes, reads

      his braille editions. I would

      touch your face as a disinterested

      scholar touches an original page.

      However frightening, I would

      discover you, and I would not

      turn you in; I would not make

      you face your wife, or Dallas,

      or the co-pilot, Jim. You

      could return to your crazy

      orbiting, and I would not try

      to fully understand what

      it means to you. All I know

      is this: when I see you,

      as I have seen you at least

      once every year of my life,

      spin across the wilds of the sky

      like a tiny, African god,

      I feel dead. I feel as if I were

      the residue of a stranger’s life,

      that I should pursue you.

      My head cocked toward the sky,

      I cannot get off the ground,

      and, you, passing over again,

      fast, perfect, and unwilling

      to tell me that you are doing

      well, or that it was mistake

      that placed you in that world,

      and me in this; or that misfortune

      placed these worlds in us.

      I am walking a trail

      on a friend’s farm

      about three miles from

      town. I arrange the day

      for you. I stop and say,

      you would not believe how happy

      I was as a child,

      to some logs. Blustery wind

      puts tumbleweed

      in my face as I am

      pretending to be on my way

      home to see you and

      the family again,

      to touch the orange

      fingers of the moon.

      That’s how I think of it.

      The years flipped back last night

      and I drank hot rum till

      dawn.

      It was a wild success and I wasn’t sad when

      I woke past noon

      and saw the starlings in the sky.

      My brain’s an old rag anyway,

      but I’ve got a woman and you’d say

      she’s too good for me. You’d call

      her a real doll and me a goof-ball.

      I’ve got my head between my paws

      because it’s having a damn

      birthday party. How old do you think I am?

      I bet you think I’m

      seventeen.

      It doesn’t matter. Just between

      us, you know what I’m doing

      now? I’m calling the cows home.

      They’re coming, too.

      I lower

      myself to the ground lazily,

      a shower of avuncular kisses

      issuing from my hands and lips—

      I just wanted to tell you

      I remember you even now;

      Goodbye, goodbye. Here come the cows.

      We plan in partial sleep

      a day of intense activity—

      to arrive at a final bargain

      with the deaf grocer,

      to somehow halt a train;

      we plan our love’s rejuvenation

      one last time. And then

      she dreams another life

      altogether. I’ve gone away.

      The petals of a red bud

      caught in a wind between

      Hannibal and Carthage,

      the day has disappeared.

      Like a little soap bubble

      the moon glides around

      our bed. We are two negroes

      lugubriously sprawled

      on a parched boardwalk.

      … you are alone with the Alone,

      

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