(Paris late June 1948, I saw you)
no photos.
At least of all ‘us’ seeing through walls
inner gardens of other people’s houses.
Could not look directly. Preter-form, bleached
the fingers off all the gloves.
Forward toward your family reunions
where they ask where you came from again. I delight
in your song – no other this than this
standing in line buying fruit, failing
to protect ourselves from heat.
–
I had only myself to think about, and words to count.
Lament for the ones who left. I’ve left my nose bleeds
and bleeding lies. Am I the last receiver, some other
I won’t say.
We met those caverns and in
them echoes. Tender as suitcases,
the train conductor’s moustache. How would we
so separately bind arduous that’s how;
will you come or won’t you
on this ground patent
publish the marvellous YOU full of germs to speak
with you another room without a door
–
Open suitcase but only one dress
I wore it yesterday
the day before
my rooms sallow with you and your smell
from which I believed I was always safe.
Side by side you always on my hair
my body
lies I had written for you.
–
Knots underneath SAY third party SAY
which wonderment speaks [it is speaking]
lately your work or lately mine
Italian trains take me in titration
they all said anyhow I failed on
endings;
I’d show them
–
My life placing itself next to yours as a relief.
We could sink into and rise out of
Is it right they hear
the other woman’s voice in mine?
–
The least complicated part of you your numbers.
Nothing prime in line, nothing deviant.
I could not cross to the window to see could not rest
could not change form. Dirt I was
to dirt I should return.
–
The appearing numbers stalked me
on papers, absently 2 or 3 digits
at the doctor’s office on the dialling
patient board, a 4 or J side by side,
even in public the place standing in for you.
Wasn’t this proof I didn’t need?
–
what speaks from these places
system nerves,
of your touch
desirous howl backwards going
taste beyond enemy
you know the old won’t know
Q say
A I can’t that the what of us was
more than mind
oben
listening
across
time
Q you assume it only speaks forward
A I think it’s true about you
Q and my people
A the ones with crooked necks
Q if they laugh, yes
A I felt drawn to you in blue
Q ‘after the 15th we can write normal letters again, thank God’
A the words came in backwards
fingered them over in
facing trees facing walls whatever
was most silent
I hung my ears out night after night
off the sill waiting your voice
did not rise
in woods
did not rise
in graves
it did not rise
by the riverside
it did not rise
in nineteen year of our lord hundred and fifty
Laressa Dickey