IGNATOW, David


Here in bed

Here in bed behind a brick wall

I can make order and meaning,

but how do I begin? How do I

emerge without panic

to the sounds and mass

of people in the street?

Are they human who stare

as I pass by, as if sizing me up

for a mugging or a filthy proposition,

and am I human to have to be

frightened and on guard?

It's people I'm afraid of, afraid

of my own kind, knowing their angers

and schemes and violent needs, knowing

through knowledge of myself

that I have learned to resist,

but when I can't I have seen

the havoc I have made.

It's this, knowing their desperate motives,

as I have known mine, I'm afraid of

in them. I hide upon a bed

behind a brick wall and listen

to engines roaring up and down

the street and to voices shouting

to one another and find no meaning

or order in them, as there is none

in me when I am free of self-restraint.

The bed is my victory over fear.

The bed returns me to my self

as I was young and dreaming

of the beauty of the trees

and faces of people.


Self-Employed

For Harvey Shapiro

I stand and listen, head bowed,

to my inner complaint.

Persons passing by think

I am searching for a lost coin.

You’re fired, I yell inside

after an especially bad episode.

I’m letting you go without notice

or terminal pay. You just lost

another chance to make good.

But then I watch myself standing at the exit,

depressed and about to leave,

and wave myself back in wearily,

for who else could I get in my place

to do the job in dark, airless conditions?


Last Night

Last night I spoke to a dead woman with green face.

She told me of her good life among the living,

with a faithful man. He was right there

beside her as tall as I, and moving

like me, with kind motions. If she did breathe,

it was just to talk and tell her life

in their basement smelling moist

like freshly opened earth. He was good to her

and she had worked as a typist

every day and came home to cook.

It was a good life with her husband,

he was kind; and she took hold of his hand

and said, 'In this basement we've made a home,

with me working as typist and he studying

his music.' She was dead, that much she understood

herself by her tone; and she looked at me

with green eyes.

For My Daughter

When I die choose a star

and name it after me

that you may know

I have not abandoned

or forgotten you.

You were such a star to me,

following you through birth

and childhood, my hand

in your hand.

When I die

choose a star and name it

after me so that I may shine

down on you, until you join

me in darkness and silence

together.