And Carried

And Carried

(“They departed in a boat by themselves for a deserted place.” Mark 6:32)

I want to be alone (I told them)
and cried after the last one left (and carried her dog out too)
This silent place amplifies the drop of each tear,
(like the boom of a rubber-red playground ball against the hollow wall).
This silent place occupies every open space, couch or chair
(reminding me who, 20, 30, 40 years past of the ones who may still be sitting there.)

I want to be alone (I write them)
and still edit my phrases down the middle of the river (the rapids at the banks
would surely alarm the satellite men scanning people like me for movement
outside the lines)
I edit my phrases (and still call it poetry)
when poetry should be blood on the page, question marks and slashed phrases
so sharp it makes the reader want to rip it out of the book and burn it before
the questions creep between the place where eyes and brain always meet.

(I edit my phrases) I answer, mostly, as I’m expected (and argue once
the last inquisitor has exited, with my deserted self) He carried his doctrine out too.

I am in the dunce’s corner (I chose the seat myself)
without reading (magazine <weekly reader>, book <Fahrenheit 451>,
poetry <cummings, ferhlinghetti, Byron> ) and wear the paper crown well.

I know as much, but no more (only on different matters, different scores)
I have read widely, sang wildly (still different matters, but scorched the scores)
all upon a lonely corner because (enthralled by words my ears heard through my eyes)
the bell had rung, the day was done (and never noticed the last student leave).

I wandered home late (others carried out the doctoral theses well)
walked through the park (barber shop quartets in summer)
entered the front door where

Mother’s Remington always sat upon the dining room table. Next to it,
Father’s box of latin flash cards and a wall of books from Microbiology to
Faulkner. (I learned to edit myself far later, when big men with large desks
misread an innocent piece…)

I want to be alone.

(The faith, reason, here-and-now part of me knows that the disciples found that desert spot and experienced the miraculous feeding of the 5,000. This bit of knowledge I post at the end of this piece in case any firm believer firmly believes I have lost a marble or a screw has wriggled loose.)