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Barbara
Ras
Rhapsody
Today
Maybe todaywill be the day you wake and forthe firsttimewatchthe full
moon
set surprisingly
red over the fineedge of the earth,which foronce will not
look like a razor,maybe a trampolineor a more permeablemembrane.
Maybe todayyoull see the fawnon itsgawkylegs,the spots on its side
like some dazed grace leftover fromthe preworld,
floatingtentatively
so thatyou thinkabout believingin righteousness,
and maybeyou 11rememberthe day a dragonflyrode your shirtfront
all the way around the lake,itsjeweled body breathlessbut pulsing,
a littlelike firstlove. Maybe today
youll findgardeniasfloatingin a blue wood-firedbowl and theirscent
will bloom into the room like ghostlyelephants,buglingsoftly,
and finally,
youll buy the ticketsto Zanzibar,
somewherewithslow fansand ceremoniouswalking,
wherethe post officebehind the soccer fieldsmellsof cinnamon,
and on the way to the coast youll visittheAfricanvillage
and the kingtherewill remindyou "withoutevil thereis no good."
And thoughof course evil will enterinto everyday,
maybetodayit will be impersonal,buttintoyourlifequietly
like the deer heads on the walls of the barbecue shack,or insidious
but distantlike the human ear in a lab somewhere growingon the back of
a mouse.
Maybe you can put even these out of yourmind along withthe cruelty
of strangersand imaginethattodays the day a littlebit of time
mightstop,suspended in the foota greatblue heron holds above the water,
or maybeyoull watchthe mourningdoves and discovertheywarble
[19]
This content downloaded from 128.192.114.136 on Wed, 22 Apr 2015 18:50:03 UTC
All use subject to JSTOR Terms and Conditions
THE GEORGIA REVIEW
20
as they fly,so eternallyamazed by flightthat they chirp,Ym doing it, Ym
doingit.
Why not make todaythe day you look
at theback of youreyelidsin a freshway,the glitterthere
remindingyou of thebeach, the starstrucksand you siftedas a child,
sometimesfindinga shellthe size of a largespeck and wondering
about the sound of the sea held in its infinitely
small swirl
and whatkind of ear it would take to hear it.
By now maybe it is noon, the sun squanderingitself
like a coin burninga hole in theblue pocket of sky,
and you thinkof the hours in the dead of the day in a dustysquare,
a colonial citysomewherein Boyacá, and you remember
a burroin a plaza the size of a classroom,you waitingforthe bus,
theburrowaitingfornothing,while a littledust devil picked up spinning,
wind and dirt
dancing quietly,and you told yourselfRememberthis, the burro,the dust,
and you
wrapped in a drenchingsolitude,and afterall theseyears,you do.
Maybe todayyoull make anothermemorylike that,maybe it'llbe the
pelicans
and theirorderlyuntalkativelineup in the skywiththeirwingspracticing
the language of knives.Maybe it'llbe the man shrimping,
a silhouetteon the horizon at sunset,his circularnet cast up into the air
to flash
a daintydaytimefireworks
beforedisappearinginto the sea.
Maybe itwon'tbe today maybe tomorrow,an even betterday,
thebrassymoon settingas you rise,maybebouncing a bitbeforeit slips
blissfullyinto the ocean, the Indian Ocean, of course,singing
in a whisper,and overheadthe fabulouswingspanof new birds,
alreadylaughing.
This content downloaded from 128.192.114.136 on Wed, 22 Apr 2015 18:50:03 UTC
All use subject to JSTOR Terms and Conditions