Harper's Magazine/February 2013 Page 24
By Anne Carson, from Red Doc>,
to be published next month by Knopf.[Poetry]
RED EXCERPTS
TIME PASSES TIME
does not pass. Time all
but passes. Time usually
passes. Time passing and
gazing. Time has no gaze.
Time as perseverance.
Time as hunger. Time in
a natural way. Time when
you were six the day a
mountain. Mountain time.
Time I don’t remember.
Time for a dog in an alley
caught in the beam of your
flashlight. Time not a
video. Time as paper
folded to look like a
mountain. Time smeared
under the eyes of the
miners as they rattle down
into the mine. Time if you
are bankrupt. Time if you
are Prometheus. Time if
you are all the little tubes
on the roots of a gorse
plant sucking greenish
black moistures up into
new scribbled continents.
Time it takes for the postal
clerk to apply her lipstick
at the back of the post
office before the
supervisor returns. Time
it takes for a cow to tip
over. Time in jail. Time
as overcoats in a closet.
Time for a herd of turkeys
skidding and surprised on
ice. All the time that has
soaked into the walls here.
Time between the little
clicks. Time compared to
the wild fantastic silence
of the stars. Time for
the man at the bus stop
standing on one leg to tie
his shoe. Time taking
Night by the hand and
trotting off down the road.
By Anne Carson, from Red Doc>,
to be published next month by Knopf.
Time passes oh boy. Time
got the jump on me yes it
did.
HE BRINGS LILACS
from the bush by the
corner of her house to
which she will probably
not return this time. Or
ever and he leans his face
into them. The smell
plunges up. A vertical
smell. Wet purple
unvanquished. Her door is
shut. The ceiling tracks
flicker. No radios no
barbecues don’t honk a
sign he saw on the way to
the hospital his mind
running like a dog off
its chain. Certain things
not decided have been
decided. He arrived on
the day after her surgery.
Has seen this corridor at
all hours. Notices again a
hesitancy in the light as if
it were trying not to shock
you with how scant it is.
He can hear the oxygen
machine through the door.
It shunts on. Runs awhile.
Shunts off. He enters.
WHEN HE IS there they
lift the stones together.
The stones are her lungs.
NOT A CASUAL
solitude. He and she.
Oxygen machine is
wheeled in and hooked
up. Her eyelids flutter but
do not open. He sits. The
room is hot. There is a
smell. Does Proust have a
verb for this. This
struggle she faces now her
onetime terrible date with
Night. First date last date
soulmate. Old song lyrics
scamper in him. He moves
the chair back to the
window. She’s counting
my soulmate gasps of
make my heart beat at a
fast rate. Oxygen. He
dozes. Waking to her avid
gaze. Wide open. She
holds in one hand the
makeup mirror in the
other a pair of tweezers.
Here she whispers. Lifts
tweezers. Maybe you can
do it. Taps the end of her
chin. He hesitates shrugs
pulls up his chair takes the
makeup mirror and peers
close. A beard of very
tiny white translucent
hairs all over her chin. He
moves the oxygen tube
aside and gingerly plucks
a few. Plucks a few more.
There are hundreds
thousands. He hates
waiting for her to wince
she doesn’t wince. It’s
alright Ma you can hardly
see them he says. Her
eyes fall. Okay never
mind. Sadly she takes
the tweezers back. I look
awful don’t I. No you look
like my Ma. Now she
winces. In later years this
is the one memory he
wishes would go away and
not come back. And the
reason he cannot bear her
dying is not the loss of her
(which is the future) but
that dying puts the two of
them (now) into this
nakedness together that is
unforgivable. They do not
forgive it. He turns away.
This roaring air in his
arms. She is released.
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