Dear Now, Dear Then Essay
I see you every now and then. In the cracks of the pavement, in the opalesque glimmer of the living room coffee table during the early AMs, in the parking lot behind an ongoing tournament; on a track field in Boston. Tell me about a time we struggled to find our balances, fighting a seemingly infinite confrontation by never seeing one another eye to eye.
I see you every now and then. I see me now. I see you then. How can I see you then, when I am in the now? I can explain it to you but you may not understand. This is the Now:
Now I watch the sky turn into blues. The early morning unfolds with its serene lethargy into light as the sun rises, its rays paper-thin and translucent like thin slices of jicama, stippled with semi-invisible molecules and heliacal veins, wavering with balletic grace.
I want to show you something, there in that blue. So now I am pointing up, but you cannot see. The sun scatters its light and washes over the cloudless sky with its milky cerulean hue; I am pointing at something beyond its gently saturating color, something I know is there—something that, in my mind, I can see—something you have been, for so long, unable to find.
Then it was night. The night before, maybe. An hour before the sunrise, maybe—or two hours, maybe years—perhaps even a lifetime before seeing the light; you were never very good at guessing.
You are lying down on the courts. No—you are not. You only imagine lying down, but the country club is still bustling, crowds shifting with a collective muted murmur and the occasional laughs, or yell. Instead you watch from a distance—not the crowds but the dark ink that envelops them, the film of darkness that blankets your theater of Texas landscape in December, when night swallows the unmanmade light of day quickest.
The horizon has dimmed to its lambent conclusion, and the heavy clouds inhale the last of the sunset’s delicate pinks and muted, golden yellows. For a while now it will stay dark—and the sky’s haze keeps away evidence of the stars, hidden away like an unexplored mecca of ancient, earthless treasure. They are what you cannot yet see.
You are not going to receive this letter. Now we gather ourselves into coherent sentences in the morning and feed them to the sunrise. But then you will not understand until the clouds clear; you recognize the strife between you and a journey traveled blind, and recognize me when you see nothing but stratiform sable, for soon time will tell you when to walk away.
Saxophone Essay
I stand outside the bar,
its wooden doors, its brick walls
drown in shadow, hide behind
a quiet air of dark, dusty bronze, but
dim violet of neon lights washes over
a street, its night, and empty cement floors.
I can hear the man inside the bar.
I can hear his saxophone.
I can close my eyes on the street and see
the golden hue of the bar inside—
the man with the saxophone and I—
and smooth, lacquered amber wood
on which saxophone poems slide and dance.
And the man, only a gracefully bent shadow
over the thin neck of its shining brass swan
and its infinite treasury
of notes, spilling from its metallic beak
and flying, gliding the area of the room,
to light up uninhabited sofas and empty, molten glasses
and push against its dark wooden doors
to passersby, chasing shadows over dark
yet moonlit streets, who if only
would listen, and the saxophone sings
a chorus, in ensemble, its sad, lonely tune
and seeks to share its golden light
to me, and to you,
and I can open my eyes and see
the concrete, weathered by nightly footsteps
and hiding moonlight in its paper tears.
The moon scatters its glow,
and washes over the street, its music,
with a slowly lightening hue.
The city landscape blue
seems now speckled with light,
and a saxophone is pointing
at something beyond a cloudy , almost-white,
something it knows as true—
something on which it breathes,
something I had been—
and suddenly swept by golden, golden, golden!—
for so long
unable to find.
eight in the morning and meat and rice on the counter
and a plate on which it slumps
(today the dish looks as if drowning,
is rice not supposed to swim? My dog speaks
with a Texas accent and his
name is boxer),
the rice saffron-golden
should be the color of the sun
rather is the color of the boxer’s
pelt, which is not quite yellow, more
beige and the plate for meat and rice is
yellow instead—
but now yellow is wrong,
should be white,
so the kitchen feels upside down—
so you can find me there tilting
my head sideways now
remembering the meat and rice is a
dish called maqloubeh—
meaning upside down—
meaning I turned the pot maqloubeh
and now maqloubeh
is swimming in the plate
Now it is like a fish
on a fisherman’s hook in
Batroun
Jounieh or
Nahr el Kalb—
Meaning
river of the dog