By Tina Chang
I opened the silver pronged evening and translated
the great song of the Industrial Age. Each night
I hoped it would tell a different ending. Each time
it sang a song, sadder than I would have imagined.
I heard it, not only when I put all my perspectives
away on shelves, until the shelves caved in.
What was left: a room with windows that looked out
and I interpreted the vast room that spoke of longing,
but mostly air. I consoled myself, heavy lidded,
I revealed myself to no one. I ached by the staircase.
I opened the cupboards and the refrigerator to let the cold in.
I walked with my bare feet dragging my lone body,
cold as milk as I kissed the bottomless depth, an ear
tuned toward the series of bells, wind tied to a tree.
And then the wind stopped. If I break
the many windows will the sea roil and foam?
I am consumed with houses and what may propagate
inside them. What longing lives there, breeds
redemption? An open door to the wide plain is not a metaphor.
I swing it open each day. I leave the old house.
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Another day of gorgeous weather, this time colder and very clear, with not a lot to report but chores (folding laundry to Gladiator, Peter Jackson just WISHES he'd directed that opening battle sequence) and minor annoyances (why isn't there a way to press a couple of buttons on the phone every time we get a sales call that will automatically disconnect the call and remove us from their call lists?). Also there was Russell and maps.
Adam brought home his report card -- straight As -- and visited for a while with friends; tomorrow I have to take him to find out why his knee is hurting too much to run. After Russell saved Rome, we watched Nashville, which feels kind of scattered this season for all the incestuousness of who's slept with whom but I still like the music. Some pics of the chrysanthemum show this fall at Brookside Gardens with the violet color scheme:
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