Map Read Free

alarum of which, if but removed,
would waken all my kingdom.”
    Â 
“How excellently mortified thou art,
my lord and master,
to mine own shadow a twinnèd shade.”
    Â 
“Oh how it pleaseth me
to see my lady’s palms,
like unto palm leaves verily,
clasped to her mantle’s throat.”
    Â 
“Wherewith, raised heavenward,
I would pray thee mercy for our son,
for he is not such as we, O Theodendron.”
    Â 
“Heaven forfend, O Theotropia.
Pray, what might he be,
begotten and brought forth
in godly dignity?”
    Â 
“I will confess anon, and thou shalt hear me.
Not a princeling but a sinner have I borne thee.
Pink and shameless as a piglet,
plump and merry, verily,
all chubby wrists and ringlets came he
rolling unto us.”
    Â 
“He is roly-poly?”
    Â 
“That he is.”
    Â 
“He is voracious?”
    Â 
“Yea, in truth.”
    Â 
“His skin is milk and roses?”
    Â 
“As thou sayest.”
    Â 
“What, pray, does our archimandrite say,
a man of most penetrating gnosis?
What say our consecrated eremites,
most holy skeletesses?
How should they strip the fiendish infant
of his swaddling silks?”
    Â 
“Metamorphosis miraculous
still lies within our Savior’s power.
Yet thou, on spying
the babe’s unsightliness,
shalt not cry out
and rouse the sleeping demon from his rest?”
    Â 
“I am thy twin in horror.
Lead on, Theotropia.”

Beheading
    Â 
    Â 
Décolletage
comes from
decollo,
decollo
means I cut off at the neck.
The Queen of Scots, Mary Stuart,
ascended the scaffold in an appropriate shift.
The shift was
décolleté
and red as a hemorrhage.
    Â 
At that very moment,
in a secluded chamber,
Elizabeth Tudor, Queen of England,
stood at the window in a white dress.
The dress was triumphantly fastened to the chin
and finished in a starched ruff.
    Â 
They thought in unison:
“Lord, have mercy on me”
“Right is on my side”
“Living means getting in the way”
“Under certain circumstances the owl is the baker’s daughter”
“This will never end”
“It is already over”
“What am I doing here, there’s nothing here”
    Â 
The difference in dress—yes, this we know for sure.
The detail
is unyielding.

Pietà
    Â 
    Â 
In the town where the hero was born you may:
gaze at the monument, admire its size,
shoo two chickens from the empty museum’s steps,
ask for his mother’s address,
knock, push the creaking door open.
Her bearing is erect, her hair is straight, her gaze is clear.
You may tell her that you’ve just arrived from Poland.
You may bear greetings. Make your questions loud and clear.
Yes, she loved him very much. Yes, he was born that way.
Yes, she was standing by the prison wall that morning.
Yes, she heard the shots.
You may regret not having brought a camera,
a tape recorder. Yes, she has seen such things.
She read his final letter on the radio.
She sang his favorite lullabies once on TV.
And once she even acted in a movie, in tears
from the bright lights. Yes, the memory still moves her.
Yes, just a little tired now. Yes, it will pass.
You may get up. Thank her. Say goodbye. Leave,
passing by the new arrivals in the hall.

Innocence
    Â 
    Â 
Conceived on a mattress made of human hair.
Gerda. Erika. Maybe Margarete.
She doesn’t know, no, not a thing about it.
This kind of knowledge isn’t suited
to being passed on or absorbed.
The Greek Furies were too righteous.
Their birdy excess would rub us the wrong way.
    Â 
Irma. Brigitte. Maybe Frederika.
She’s twenty-two, perhaps a little older.
She knows the three languages that all travelers need.
The company she works for plans to export
the finest mattresses, synthetic fiber only.
Trade brings nations closer.
    Â 
Berta. Ulrike. Maybe Hildegard.
Not beautiful perhaps, but tall and slim.
Cheeks, neck, breasts, thighs, belly
in full bloom