I woke in the wreck of history
still drowsy, a dryness in my
bed, my bones. Would you
like fingers, the Lord asked,
& gave me plenty. There was
no music, no garden in them.
I wanted to be touched the way
I had touched, delicately, but
with great passion. If you want
another kind of lover, Leonard
Cohen crooned. Not my will,
Martin Luther King intoned,
but God’s. I wanted a word
for every surface, for the belly
& the underbelly, the line between
the lines. There was a secret
name inside every living thing,
a song underneath every song.
What happened then, I asked,
meaning both before & next.
The Lord said Kabul. Said
manifest destiny. Said Rembrandt
said Bordeaux said Dakota
said Chelsea Hotel said Egyptian
cotton said Homer. The Greek
poet, I asked. No. Homer Plessy.
Oh, I said. I see. But I did not.
Lulls, curtains, continuations.
You want company, the Lord asked,
& made New Orleans, oceans,
rye bread, Cointreau. There
were some companions sent
by another party. There were
days smothered in solitude,
nights when I thought, if only
I could sleep, if only…but I
could not complete the sentence.
Are you hungry, the Lord asked.
Oh my. Oh yes. Oh my yes.
This poem is supported in part by the National Endowment for the Arts.
