Here's a set of seven, more or less,
autobiographical sonnets written, oh, 20 years ago,
longer, called "The Broken Home."
Crossing the street, I saw the parents and the child
at their window, gleaming like fruit with evening's mild gold
leaf.
In a room on the floor below, sunless, cooler--
a brimming saucer of wax, marbly and dim--
I have lit what's left of my life.
I've thrown out yesterday's milk and opened a book of maxims.
The flame quickens.
The word stirs.
Tell me, tongue of fire, that you and I are as real at least
as the people upstairs.
My father, who had flown in World War I,
might have continued to invest his life in cloud banks
well above Wall Street and wife.
But the race was run below, and the point was to win.
Too late now, I make out in his blue gaze,
through the smoked glass of being 36,
the soul eclipsed by twin black pupils, sex and business;
time was money in those days.
Each 13th year he married.
When he died there were already several chilled wives
in sable orbit--
rings, cars, permanent waves.
We'd felt him warming up for a green bride.
He could afford it.
He was in his "prime" at three score ten.
But money was not time.
When my parents were younger this was a popular act,
a veiled woman would leap from an electric,
wine-dark car to the steps of no matter what--
the Senate or the Ritz Bar --and bodily, at newsreel speed,
attack no matter whom--
Al Smith or Jose Maria Sert or Clemenceau --veins
standing out on her throat as she yelled "War mongerer!
Pig!
Give us the vote!"
And would have to be hauled away in her hobble skirt.
What had the man done?
Oh, made history.
Her business, he had implied, was giving birth, tending
the house, mending the socks.
Always that same old story--
Father Time and Mother Earth, a marriage on the rocks.
One afternoon, red, satyr-thighed,
Michael, the Irish setter, had passionately lowered,
led the child I was to a shut door.
Inside, blinds beat sun from the bed.
The green-gold room throbs like a bruise.
Under a sheet, clad in taboos lay whom we sought,
her hair undone, outspread, and of a blackness
found, if ever now, in old engravings where the acid bit.
I must have needed to touch it or the whiteness--
was she dead?
Her eyes flew open, startled strange and cold.
The dog slumped to the floor.
She reached for me.
I fled.
Tonight they have stepped out onto the gravel.
The party is over.
It's the fall of 1931.
They love each other still.
She: Charlie, I can't stand the pace.
He: Come on, honey-- why, you'll bury us all!
A lead soldier guards my windowsill, khaki rifle,
uniform, and face.
Something in me grows heavy, silvery, pliable.
How intensely people used to feel!
Like metal poured at the close of a proletarian novel,
refined and glowing from the crucible,
I see those two hearts, I'm afraid, still.
Cool here in the graveyard of good and evil,
they are even so to be honored and obeyed.
Obeyed, at least, inversely.
Thus I rarely buy a newspaper, or vote.
To do so, I have learned, is to invite the tread of a stone
guest within my house.
Shooting this rusted bolt, though, against him,
I trust I am no less time's child than some
who on the heath impersonate Poor Tom or on the barricades
risked life and limb.
Nor do I try to keep a garden, only
an avocado in a glass of water--
roots pallid, jammed with air.
And later, when the small gilt leaves
have grown fleshy and green, I let them die, yes, yes,
and start another.
I am earth's no less.
A child, a red dog roam the corridors, still,
of the broken home.
No sound.
The brilliant rag runners halt before wide open doors.
My old room!
It's wallpaper-- cream, medallioned with pink
and brown--
brings back the first nightmares, long summer colds
and Emma, sepia-faced, perspiring
over broth carried upstairs, aswim with golden fats
I could not taste.
The real house became a boarding school.
Under the ballroom ceiling's allegory someone at last
may actually be allowed to learn something; or from my window,
cool with the unstiflement of the entire story,
watch a red setter stretch and sink in cloud.