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On the fifth floor of the university library
in a blind cubby
by the window
sitting in it now,
I see the inside
blocking the outside
a symmetrical ‘A’
a backward ‘B’
denoting the location of texts
ordered by the Dewey Decimal System
on ugly not-quite yellow stacks
lit by ticking timers
so loud in the resounding library sh-hhh.
I came up here to see the roofs
of the real city buildings
to see the real city
and real buildings
with the sun still yellow
but about to set behind them;
I climbed three flights of stairs
from the aesthetically curious
raised entrance
to see some truth
to see something that was true
to the man who made me cry
with words of hope
who made me anxious
with his dislike of my privilege
who says, “working class” with pride
emanating from his ample belly
and projected across the room
across time and space
across the highly structured compartments of my heart
liberating my love and
adding weight to my mind
until my wallet grew dark
and pulled on my purse
tearing fabric from my blouse and leaving me exposed
pale and soft and slight
uptight hair, the lively curls pinned back
making an unintended statement
about preferring death to entropy
and I can’t speak to AJ
because my words are not as real.
I try to say that his poetry has moved me
and it is he who explains
about his mother’s love.
I say to thank her for me,
then realize that she is probably dead
except in his heart, where I have no business leaving messages.
I am so confused
to see this man,
and to hear him,
with this bunch of lousy and pretentious pricks
who speak with affectations and
are far worse than I am;
if he can love them then
he can love me
but will he love me?
and can I
love him?
Can I say love and mean love
or do I have to explain
and qualify and beat to death
what he can say and have be understood?
and I would like to blame this all on Basil Bernstein
or on what he knows to be true
or on my parents, for not teaching me
the language that each of them half-knew
long, long ago. but I never wanted to listen.
And the rooftops of Main South are made of gold
at the farthest points on the horizon
and the athletic center roof is white,
the dorms are black,
the lower levels of the library are covered with loose stones
that may well kill us someday.
I like to come up here
and read old books, and new ones
I like to climb up all these stairs
to test my lungs, my heart, my body
to see if I am still as young and quick as I was
yesterday, if I am still the youngest and the quickest
of us here, but I must say
although I like the stairs
I do not like the floors
which block my view
of everything I did and saw
on the way up to this window
where the gold is far away and the rocks are bound to fall. |
