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October 28,2015

 

Recognitions

Rachel Hadas, 1948

 

When my son was a few weeks old,
replicas of his yawning face appeared
suddenly on drowsy passersby:

middle-aged man’s gape that split his beard,
old woman on a bus, a little girl—
all told a story that I recognized.

Now he is fifteen.
As my students shuffle in the door
of the classroom, any of the boys

could easily be him—
foot-dragging, also swaggering a little,
braving the perils of a public space

by moving in a wary little troop.
But the same sleepy eyes, the same soft face.
We recognize the people whom we love,

or love what we respond to as our own,
trusting that one day someone
will look at us with recognition.

Body of Book

 

This is one way to talk about a book:
I woke into the locus of my body.
In sleep’s thick envelope, what poems fit?
Dream-card sealed with a kiss and then sent out.
What we meant was musing, nothing else.
Did the dream not spring from memory?
Remembering who said what or what I read:
The sin of middle age, misattribution.
Cherished, it writes itself upon your skin.
I could tell the time of day without looking at the sun.
Salted with a tear and wiped and sent:
You take it with you to the land of sleep,
Body of book to read and to be read to,
Out into the world, its face still damp.

 

Cherished, it writes itself upon your skin.
You take it with you to the land of sleep.
Remembering who said what, or what I read,
I could tell the time of day without looking at the sun.
Body of book: to read and to be read to,
Salted with a tear and wiped and sent
(The sin of middle age, misattribution)
Out into the world, its face still damp,
Dream-card sealed with a kiss and then sent out
Until we all went wearily to bed.
I woke into the locus of my body
Where what we meant was kindness, nothing else.
Did the dream not spring from memory?
This is one way to talk about a book.

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