This is a poem that I want to read for an old friend of mine,
that came directly out of something she said -- the poet,
Susan North, who lives in Tucson.
And one time, we were talking and she made-- casually made
some remark to the effect that it's
impossible to live in the world without doing harm.
And I guess she was right.
It seems so to me.
This is sort of about the inadvertent damage we do just
by sort of minding our own business
and trying to take care of things,
and about the long chain of consequences
that are connected to any kind of moment
or any kind of action.
It's called, "Candlelight."
"Crossing the porch in a hazy dusk to worship the moon,
rising like a yellow filling station
sun on the black horizon, you feel the faint grit
of ants beneath your shoes, but keep
on walking because in this world,
you have to decide what you're willing to kill.
Saving your marriage might mean dinner for two
by candlelight on steak raised on pasture chopped out
of rainforest, whose absence might mean
an atmosphere of thinness 50 years from now
above the vulnerable head of your bald grandson on vacation.
As the cells of his scalp, sauteed by solar radiation,
break down like suspects under questioning.
Still, you slice the sirloin into pieces
and feed each other on silver forks
under the approving gaze of a waiter whose
purchased attention and French name
are a kind of candlelight themselves.
While in the background, the fingertips of the pianist
float over the tusks of the slaughtered elephant
without a care, as if the elephant
had granted its permission."