from Part 2
In The First Place
But a name stuttering on the page, a changeable
son looking for his American skin, the untattooed
blank beginning,
the world a small stateroom on a ship
churning its wake in a harbor
flecked with debris and spiteful
ash,
world a small kitchen with fleeing
cockroaches, chipped enamel table and
silverware drawer clashing into the night,
world a theater with dusty drapes
and backstage noise,
world the space between the clasped hands
of a man and woman looking out at the river—
in that space the heat of bodies, a fretful
chronicle to be made
where bird and window collide,
the flight toward the invisible
the soul’s confusion in going back—
until in old age,
far south of that city, you see the draped moss
on live oaks,
hear sea crows caw in palmettos
lining a beach,
and now you inhale the odor of a lagoon,
at night the sour lower level,
now you feel a
tidal pull in the small recesses behind a glance,
the wrinkling
song of a dry day in a strong sun
where history accuses,
history desires,
history forgives.