A LOST PIECE OF LITERARY HISTORY

One half the dreams of the poet Anna A------
Took place in the house she lived in
When she was nine. Rooms moved about;

Walls found themselves covered

With the bright red wallpaper she'd discovered
Nine layers down during a long night
Spent at an inn in Simbirsk. While she wrote
Her book on Aleksandr P----, he lived in the attic
Except for the years he'd been in exile
Which he spent in her garden shed.

PICTURES

My father drew a picture of some angels
Sitting in an attic, listening
To the people in the house below.

He drew pictures of my children
Among the giant balloons, floating
Down Fifth Avenue on Thanksgiving.

He sent me a picture of a sinister rabbit
Looking at the flower my mother always drew.
I knew the rabbit; he used to haunt
The margins of letters I wrote home.

JANUARY 28

Clearing my parent’s house after they died

I found in the box room of the attic

Standing in a corner, behind some suitcases

Long done with their travels, a dusty Buddha

About an inch tall. He seemed unperturbed –

Well, he’s a Buddha; being unperturbed

Is his métier – that we’d lost each other

At least twenty years before in a state

A thousand miles or more away.

A CUP OF TEA

While everyone else in that large family slept
My father would be awake in the attic
Studying perhaps, or writing imperishable things
Which have perished. After her hard day's work,
His mother would read old newspapers
In the kitchen. (She got full value from her papers
Never letting one go until she had read it all
The news, the ads, the serialized novel,
Advice, recipes and those strange short bits
Compositors used to make the columns even.)
A few hours before dawn she would go upstairs
And bring him some tea and perhaps a cookie.
Did she bring a cup for herself sometimes?
And what did they discuss, those nachtvolk?

TENANTS

Sometimes he touches a wheel and the wheel cries out
"So angry! Where was all this anger born?"
Or his foot snubs against a rock which asks
"What is it that has made you so sad?"
But mostly he does not know he is angry
Does not know he is the very father of grief.
His anger has grown so tall, his grief so clever
He cannot see them or that they've filled his house
So he  lives now in the attic, stowed away
Among cobwebs and mice and housegods.