酷我-北美枫

[LavenderSwing]

from The Face
by David St. John


xii.


It was late May when I began the journal, a record of descents, tours of the abyss,
& catalogues of blackness. One morning, I woke having dreamt
I was the vehicle of aliens—no joke!—a stiff robotic self
Impeccably designed to go out into our world & hunt other people. My alien
Engineers had expected more success, I’m sure. The dream never made it clear
Exactly the fate of those I’d encountered, though I’m sure my friends
Might have something to say on this subject. At last
My daughter recognized me, I mean the “Me”
Within the “Me” who was the robot transport, & just that touch of her hand
In recognition made all of those internal extra-Earthly mini-parasites
Evaporate like dust motes in the wind. Thanks, I said out loud
As I woke to the blaze of sunlight in the bedroom. You’re welcome, she said, just
There at the bedside, her hand on my head, for God only knows how long.





xvii.

. . . Adesso transgresso . . . There I was again, entering the country
Of departure, passport in hand, a lost verb in its transitive case. A crescendo
Of palms scored the scarred horizon. Blush of skin, the scent of lavender. Along
The naked limbs of the apricot, a silence, & then wind. A passport beyond grief.
Past the closed mouth of shadow, the damp mouth of earth. (Here, in her
Mirror: the pulsing red pearl.) All the way to Lourdes, her fingertips pressed
Into the hollows of her hips. Now, over there in front of the cathedral,
A panther in a silk bustier. I dreamed of orchids three nights running, then
Of the necklace of surf marbling her skin. Then of one breath, & another . . .
& at last a raspberry-colored bird came to perch above her door frame. She put
Two pears into the fire, & soon their pages dripped with ideograms of ash. All one
Night, there at her bedside, tracing with one finger that raw, violet scar—
I can say “eclipse” as well as anyone. This is the trespass; this, the body; & this
The glass cup of narcissus on the windowsill. Fragment, held & tethered by light . . .
When she awoke, she told me she remembered nothing . . .
Only . . . only:
A single leopard with my face, falling out of the vast & empty winter sky.





xxvii.

The voice, a woman’s, says, “You self-absorbed prick!” & I swear
Every man in the place looks up, assuming in a heartbeat, & probably not
Without reason, that he’s the one—& I include myself here—that this bullet
Is clearly meant for. But then we can see her, because she stands up beside
The table, looking down at him the way a gargoyle surveys the filth below
& then of course we notice him, wickedly handsome, beautiful really,
Late-forties with jet-black dyed hair slicked back & though of course it’s
Unfair, you hear the whole restaurant decide together, all at once,
Well, she’s probably got a point . . . He’s pure Eurotrash, your standard
Rodeo Drive chauffeur–cum–gigolo–cum–male model, all grown-up
& burnt out, & it’s hard not to feel just a little sorry for him
As she raises her steak knife to her shoulder & buries it in the back of his
Left hand, flattened—now pinned—against the starched white linen tablecloth.
She looks at the knife & slumps into her chair. He looks over at her, with what
Seems enormous tenderness, & it’s easy to believe, in fact, that we’ve got it
All wrong. As the waiter comes over with an ice pack & the first-aid kit;
As the several doctors in the house compete with their cell phones & advice;
As the lake of blood deliberately advances toward her . . . well, looking at the two
Of them looking at each other, it’s hard not to admit they must be in love.
I mean, really really in love—



Awards
The Pushcart Prize XXIX: Best of the Small Presses

Copyright © David St. John

[[我还没有昵称]]

from The Face
by David St. John


xii.


It was late May when I began the journal, a record of descents, tours of the abyss,
& catalogues of blackness. One morning, I woke having dreamt
I was the vehicle of aliens—no joke!—a stiff robotic self
Impeccably designed to go out into our world & hunt other people. My alien
Engineers had expected more success, I’m sure. The dream never made it clear
Exactly the fate of those I’d encountered, though I’m sure my friends
Might have something to say on this subject. At last
My daughter recognized me, I mean the “Me”
Within the “Me” who was the robot transport, & just that touch of her hand
In recognition made all of those internal extra-Earthly mini-parasites
Evaporate like dust motes in the wind. Thanks, I said out loud
As I woke to the blaze of sunlight in the bedroom. You’re welcome, she said, just
There at the bedside, her hand on my head, for God only knows how long.





xvii.

. . . Adesso transgresso . . . There I was again, entering the country
Of departure, passport in hand, a lost verb in its transitive case. A crescendo
Of palms scored the scarred horizon. Blush of skin, the scent of lavender. Along
The naked limbs of the apricot, a silence, & then wind. A passport beyond grief.
Past the closed mouth of shadow, the damp mouth of earth. (Here, in her
Mirror: the pulsing red pearl.) All the way to Lourdes, her fingertips pressed
Into the hollows of her hips. Now, over there in front of the cathedral,
A panther in a silk bustier. I dreamed of orchids three nights running, then
Of the necklace of surf marbling her skin. Then of one breath, & another . . .
& at last a raspberry-colored bird came to perch above her door frame. She put
Two pears into the fire, & soon their pages dripped with ideograms of ash. All one
Night, there at her bedside, tracing with one finger that raw, violet scar—
I can say “eclipse” as well as anyone. This is the trespass; this, the body; & this
The glass cup of narcissus on the windowsill. Fragment, held & tethered by light . . .
When she awoke, she told me she remembered nothing . . .
Only . . . only:
A single leopard with my face, falling out of the vast & empty winter sky.





xxvii.

The voice, a woman’s, says, “You self-absorbed prick!” & I swear
Every man in the place looks up, assuming in a heartbeat, & probably not
Without reason, that he’s the one—& I include myself here—that this bullet
Is clearly meant for. But then we can see her, because she stands up beside
The table, looking down at him the way a gargoyle surveys the filth below
& then of course we notice him, wickedly handsome, beautiful really,
Late-forties with jet-black dyed hair slicked back & though of course it’s
Unfair, you hear the whole restaurant decide together, all at once,
Well, she’s probably got a point . . . He’s pure Eurotrash, your standard
Rodeo Drive chauffeur–cum–gigolo–cum–male model, all grown-up
& burnt out, & it’s hard not to feel just a little sorry for him
As she raises her steak knife to her shoulder & buries it in the back of his
Left hand, flattened—now pinned—against the starched white linen tablecloth.
She looks at the knife & slumps into her chair. He looks over at her, with what
Seems enormous tenderness, & it’s easy to believe, in fact, that we’ve got it
All wrong. As the waiter comes over with an ice pack & the first-aid kit;
As the several doctors in the house compete with their cell phones & advice;
As the lake of blood deliberately advances toward her . . . well, looking at the two
Of them looking at each other, it’s hard not to admit they must be in love.
I mean, really really in love—



Awards
The Pushcart Prize XXIX: Best of the Small Presses

Copyright © David St. John