Once (3 page)

to slip.

iii

I would not mind

if I were

a sinner,

but as it is

—let me assure you—

I sleep alone.

Dawn came at six today

Held back by hope

A lost cause—

Melted like snow

In the middle of

The day.

The sun shines clear fire

The earth once more

Like it was—

Old promises

Rise up

(Our honored

Ghosts)

And the lonely truths

Of love

Pledged.

Here we lie

You and I—

Your mind, unaccountable,

My mind simply

Stopped—

Like a clock struck

By the treachery

Of time.

The sky blue, empty,

Unfathomable—

As I am.

Look at it brighten

And fill and

Astonish

With each movement

Of your

Eyes.

The wren who does not

Sing

I take my simple

Flight

Silent, unmetaphoric

Dressed in brown

I say

Good-bye.

Will you think it funny

Later on

To find you had

Almost

Given shelter

To a

Thief?

i was kissed once

by a beautiful man

all blond and

czech

riding through bratislava

on a motor bike

screeching “don’t yew let me fall off heah naow!”

the funny part was

he spoke english

and setting me gallantly

on my feet

kissed me for

not anyhow
looking

like aunt jemima.

What does it matter? you ask

If protocol

falls

After artichokes

and steak,

Vivaldi

and

No

Wine

For God’s sake

Let’s not be traditional!

But I,

Unused bed

All tousled

Sing nursery rhymes

Chant

Strange

Chants

Count stray insects

On the ceiling

and

Wonder—

Why don’t you shut up and

get in?

On the morning you woke beside me—already thinking of going away—the sun did not fill my window as it does most mornings. Instead there was cloud and threat of snow. How I wish it could always be this way—that on mornings he cannot come himself, the sun might send me you.

Watching you frown at your face in the mirror this morning I almost thought you disapproved of the little dark shadow standing behind you its arms around your waist.…

Two mornings ago you left my little house. Only two steps from my fingers & you were gone, swallowed down swiftly by my spiral stairs.…

Why do you wish to give me over to someone else? “Such and such young man you’re sure to like” you say “for he is a fine, cheerful fellow, very sensitive” one thing and another. Sometimes it is as if you’d never listened to my heartbeat, never heard my breathing in your ear, never seen my eyes when you say such things.…

This is what you told me once. Must I believe you? “We are really Easterners, you and I. The rising of the Sun brings with it our whole Philosophy.”

Do not hold my few years

against me

In my life, childhood

was a myth

So long ago it seemed, even

in the cradle.

Don’t label my love with slogans;

My father can’t be blamed

for my affection

Or lack of it;

ask him.

He won’t understand you.

Don’t sit on holy stones

as you,

Loving me

and hating me, condemn.

There is no need for that.

I like to think that I, though

young it’s true,

Know what

I’m doing.

That I, once unhappy, am

Now

Quite sanely

jubilant,

& that neither you

Nor I can

Deny

That no matter how

“Sick”

The basis

is

Of what we have,

What we
do
have

Is Good.

You look at me with children

In your eyes,

Blond, blue-eyed

Teutons

Charmingly veiled

In bronze

Got from me.

What would Hitler say?

I am brown-er

Than a jew

Being one step

Beyond that Colored scene.

You are the Golden Boy,

Shiny but bloody

And with that ancient martial tune

Only your heart is out of step—

You love.

But even knowing love

I shrink from you. Blond

And Black; it is too charged a combination.

Charged with past and present wars,

Charged with frenzy

and with blood

Dare I kiss your German mouth?

Touch the perfect muscles

Underneath the yellow shirt

Blending coolly

With your yellow

Hair?

I shudder at the whiteness

Of your hands.

Blue is too cold a color

For eyes.

But white, I think, is the color

Of honest flowers,

And blue is the color

Of the sky.

Come closer then and hold out to me

Your white and faintly bloodied hands.

I will kiss your German mouth

And will touch the helpless

White skin, gone red,

Beneath the yellow shirt.

I will rock the yellow head against

My breast, brown and yielding.

But I tell you, love,

There is still much to fear.

We have only seen the

First of wars

First of frenzies

First of blood.

Someday, perhaps, we will be

Made to learn

That blond and black

Cannot love.

But until that rushing day

I will not reject you.

I will kiss your fearful

German mouth.

And you—

Look at me boldly

With surging, brown-blond teutons

In your eyes.

in balmy

iconic

prague

I offered

my bosom

to a wandering arab student

who spoke

much

of

Lebanon

and

his father’s

orchards

it was

  near

  a castle

  near

  a river

  near

  the sun

  and

  warm

&

where he

bent

and kissed

me

on the swelling

brown

smelled for

a short

lingering

time

of

apples.

To love a man wholly

love him

feet first

head down

eyes cold

closed

in depression.

It is too easy to love

a surfer

white eyes

godliness &

bronze

in the bright sun.

Very proud

he barely asked directions

to a nearby

hotel

but no

tired-eyed

little village chief

should spend his

first night

in chilly London

alone.

Grandma sleeps with

my sick

grand-

pa so she

can get him

during the night

medicine

to stop

the pain

In

the morning

clumsily

I

wake

them

Her eyes

look at me

from under-

neath

his withered

arm

The

medicine

is all

in

her long

un-

braided

hair.

i’ve got two

hundred

dollars

the girl said

on her head

she wore a

school cap

—blue—

& brown she

looked no

more than

ten

but a freshman in

college?

well, hard to tell—

i’ll give you

‘three hundred’

‘fo’ hunna’

‘five wads of jack’

but
“mrs.
whatsyourname …”

the doctor says

with impatiently tolerant

eyes

you should
want

it

you know …

talk it over with

your folks

you
may be

surprised.…

the next morning

her slender

neck broken

her note

short and

of cryptic

collegiate

make—

just

“Question—

did ever brown

daughter to black

father a white

baby

take—?”

First, suicide notes should be

(not long) but written

second,

all suicide notes

should be signed

in blood

by hand

and to the point—

that point being, perhaps,

that there is none.

Thirdly, if it is the thought

of rest that

fascinates

laziness should be admitted

in the clearest terms.

Then, all things done

ask those outraged

consider their happiest

summer

& tell if the days it

adds up to

is one.

Tonight it is the wine (or not the wine)

or a letter from you (or not a letter from you)

I sit

listen to the complacency of the rain

write a poem, kill myself there

It brings less pain—

Tonight it rains, tomorrow will be bright

tomorrow I’ll say “yesterday was the same

only the rain …

and my shoes too tight.”

to die before

one wakes

a slipping away

in glee

unobserved and

free in the wide—

area felt spatially,

heart intact.

to die before one

wakes

must be joyous

full swing glorious

(rebellion)

(victory)

unremarked triumph

love letters untorn

foetal fears

unborn

monsters given

berth

(love unseen, guiltily,

as creation)

(life “good”)

to die before one

wakes

must be a dance

(perhaps a jig)

and visual-

skipping tunes of

color

across smirking

eyelids

happy bluely …

thought running gaily

out and out.

to die before

one wakes

must be

nice

(green little passions

red dying

into ice

spinningly

(like a circus)

the blurred landscape

of the runner’s

hurried

mile)

one’s lips curving

sweetly

in one’s most subtle smile.

i

Speaking of death and decay

It hardly matters

Which

Since both are on the

way, maybe—

to being daffodils.

ii

It is not about that

a poet I knew used

to say

speaking with haunted eyes

of liking and disliking—

Now I think

uncannily

of life.

iii

My nausea has nothing

to do

With the fact that

you love me

It is probably just

something I ate

at your mother’s.

iv

To keep up a

passionate courtship

with a tree

one must be

completely mad

In the forest

in the dark one night

I lost my way.

v

If I were a patriot

I would kiss the flag

As it is,

Let us just go.

vi

My father liked very much

the hymns

in church

in the amen corner,

on rainy days

he would wake

himself up

to hear them.

vii

I like to see you try

to worm yourself

away from me

first you plead

your age

as if my young heart

felt any of the tiredness

in your bones …

viii

Making our bodies touch

across your breezy bed

how warm you are …

cannot we save our little

quarrel

until tomorrow?

ix

My fear of burial

is all tied up with

how used I am

to the spring …!

Alice Walker (b. 1944), one of the United States’ preeminent writers, is an award-winning author of novels, stories, essays, and poetry. Walker was the first African-American woman to win the Pulitzer Prize for fiction, which she won in 1983 for her novel
The Color Purple
, also a National Book Award winner. Walker has also contributed to American culture as an activist, teacher, and public intellectual. In both her writing and her public life, Walker has worked to address problems of injustice, inequality, and poverty.