Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, WITH THE WORLD, by JANE MILLER


Poetry Explorer

Classic and Contemporary Poetry

WITH THE WORLD, by                     Poet's Biography
First Line: I would like to finish
Last Line: Thinking he's off-camera.
Subject(s): Gulf War (1991); Love; Quarrels; War; War - Home Front; Operation Desert Storm (1991); Arguments; Disagreements


I would like to finish
a computer project, or one stinking letter
for work, or menu for lunch,
even before that,
to get to market
as they unload tomatoes --
organic, from Nogales -- nowhere
sweeter for January, young, fleshy.

I would like to convince an acquaintance
I am better now that the drama
between me and my lover is over,
a truce, if I may say so,
regarding our long-standing feud.
We shook in a restaurant, that is, we cried,
and cut the fish, forcing a lemon.
A pity, we said, we were still eating
from the sea, not quite like slaughtering
a cow, but nonetheless obscene.
Then we paid too much,
saying it was worth it.
Later I thought about worth,
and couldn't finish, the phone sounded
and the sky split with practice jets
despite the distance of the war
around a corner of the globe.
A meteorologist swelled one in her hand
on the TV -- I had her on "mute" --
as meanwhile I failed to persuade
my acquaintance -- of anything, in fact --
hanging up on her, inside, shut tight,
registering the report on winter desert
weather, dry and hot, very dry and hot, not
at night, at night the unexpected daily cold,
again dry, cold dry winds, a little
dry, cold, sandy, empty wind.

Next the reporter from the front,
that desert very much
like mine in Tucson, where they train,
dry and hot, then at night, generally
quiet, cold. The picture punctuates
with Scud fire and Patriot interception,
except when the American system fails
and the Russian system (categorically
no longer the enemy), lights
the sky, the apartment building
cinder slightly bluer on cable TV.
Or am I imagining seeing the attack,
seeing the attack the next day? A dry
voice crackles, garbled like a forties evening
over radio waves, a nasal traditional
Hebrew song droning without instrument,
strangely pagan and Appalachian, a cry
rattling in the cavity of a dulcimer,
like an empty, once lived-in apartment.
(If only I could remember the story,
the year?, ____________ goes out for some pears,
with only her purse and a cardigan, a
little dress, gets picked up by Germans and never
returns again, lands up in Israel, no one
has heard of her, a poet, somebody's lover).
I would like to finish listening
to the war, to sit alone another hour
with my aging remote and follow
updates from the leaders of the free world,
ours, of course, and from them
infer advice -- it's not impossible -- about
my life, the casualties of love,
albeit the analogy is damned inappropriate,
I cannot help a personal moment, petty, yet
I would like to finish the narrative,
or at least be allowed to go back, perhaps
merely for lunch, having shopped outdoors,
the weather perfect, cool late into morning,
sealed my exemplary work into envelopes,
quarreled, turned my acquaintance
into a friend, yes, to be able to return,
burst a couple of tomatoes -- a happy accident --
while confiscating the best, young, fleshy,
only a little purple, bruises I can accommodate,
practically deny if I turn them underside.

Creon decrees that Polynices, who led an attack
against the city, shall be left unburned,
"carrion for the birds to tear,
an obscenity for the citizens to behold."
Outside the city, pecan and lemon trees
wait for rain -- rain would be untimely,
but they know nothing of that --
it happens, bad weather, reconnaissance
can't make out the damage to the front.
Oil fields on fire, lemons in fog,
which drop onto dead-of-night moss,
gone by dawn. One picks his teeth,
thinking he's off-camera.





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