De la O - Antidote for night: poems

Copyright 2015 by Marsha de la O All rights reserved Manufactured in the United States of America First Edition 15 16 17 18 7 6 5 4 3 2 1 For information about permission to reuse any material from this book please contact The Permissions Company at . Publications by BOA Editions, Ltd.a not-for-profit corporation under section 501 (c) (3) of the United States Internal Revenue Codeare made possible with funds from a variety of sources, including public funds from the New York State Council on the Arts, a state agency; the Literature Program of the National Endowment for the Arts; the County of Monroe, NY; the Lannan Foundation for support of the Lannan Translations Selection Series; the Mary S. Mulligan Charitable Trust; the Rochester Area Community Foundation; the Arts & Cultural Council for Greater Rochester; the Steeple-Jack Fund; the Ames-Amzalak Memorial Trust in memory of Henry Ames, Semon Amzalak and Dan Amzalak; and contributions from many individuals nationwide. See Colophon on for special individual acknowledgments. Cover Design: Sandy Knight Interior Design and Composition: Richard Foerster Manufacturing: McNaughton & Gunn BOA Logo: Mirko Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data De la O, Marsha. [Poems.

Selections] Antidote for night : poems / Marsha de la O. pages cm. (American poets continuum series ; no. 151) Winner, 2015 Isabella Gardner Poetry Award. ISBN 978-1-938160-81-3 (pbk. paper) ISBN 978-1-938160-82-0 (e-book) I. Title. Title.

PS3604.E12265A6 2015 811'.6dc23 2015019570 BOA Editions, Ltd. 250 North Goodman Street, Suite 306 Rochester, NY 14607 www.boaeditions.org A. Poulin, Jr., Founder (19381996)for corvids everywhere,and the women who journey with them ONE Moon with Text And when I heft a tomato in my hand, sere orange, seamed with scar along the split, in September the bush still blossoming but fruit no longer sets whats left is the last of the season. Then the call comes, and more images needed. Now I settle, alone, attendant gone in search of the radiologist but the rooms not empty a mist of souls in here, shell dust of women who sat in the same wicker, one thing in commonwe all make this journey with a load of sticks and knobs. and I say it now squash blossom, glass of water, rabbit-face moon, where are you? In a strange way, shes here, they named the new machine Selene, and the hum of her meditation never ends, Selene building a pillar of sound, Selene, our former Tartar Queen, Sister, Lantern, broad-shouldered Wahine. and I say it now squash blossom, glass of water, rabbit-face moon, where are you? In a strange way, shes here, they named the new machine Selene, and the hum of her meditation never ends, Selene building a pillar of sound, Selene, our former Tartar Queen, Sister, Lantern, broad-shouldered Wahine.

The pale apples are lifted and pressed onto Selenes plate. All she sings radiant flash luster joule heat she sings opal shimmer three millimeters she sings at twelve oclock Once That old train whistle wakes me at midnight, tracks hardly used now, just a spur to the warehouse where they heap the cars with lemons bound for Asia. Another lone cry at one, and the train rumbles off to the port. Once a mockingbird perched in the umbrella tree woke me, song like dark honey, like the rain we yearn for, a cistern in my heart full as never again. Passing Hyperion The car lurches forward on the 101, red snake traffic through downtown. My father doesnt drive anymore, but he conjured this city, my labyrinth, our treasurethis is his town.

A few neon signs blink on, each a glyph of light, and were in the early dark November, 1960. Hes at the wheel driving east, me riding shotgun, truck unloaded in Cudahy, Commerce, Norwalk, one more stop in Boyle Heights, and cruise the Golden State all the way home. Huggy Boy on the radio, darkness settling over the Marlboro Man lifting a cigarette to his handsome lips, over Jesus Saves across an entire rooftop, each letter blazing, Time to Bowl in aqua, Carlin Room in flowing gold, the Four-level Interchange coming up, Smart Women Cook with Gas, Manny, Moe, or Jack stands tall, heavy curved Aladdin brow, muscles bulging from his polonever could tell the Pep Boys apartour fools paradise all around us, red-winged horse over the Mobil station, Wiltern Theater green as sea glass, spotlights angling off like egrets. My fathers hands, work-thickened, curve the wheel, scattering of dark hair across the back of his palms, thumbnail bruised black, salt tang of sweatthe way I love the world is not separate from the way I love my father, not separate from darkness sifting down, nightdust tingeing whats left of the sky. Father you no longer drive and well be passing Hyperion soon. Do you remember? Were trying to read every message written in lighta mermaid in a martini glass, a boy king, two cherries on a single stem spelled out in cylinders of fire, and these lights prove us, crawling home through Silverlake, waiting for our favorite rats running the wall of Western Exterminators. Death is a blind man in a top coat hefting a sledgehammer, mallet descending, but rats are pure mystery, offering themselves, bright knowing eyes, flick of pink noses the hammer falls.

Of endless rats, the world is made, each one a fragment light passes through, kindling form to form, dying, dead, goneand back in the dream running again before we know it. We take it all in and drive on. Chinese Lantern There was only one place we ever ate Chinese, Lins on Los Feliz, my grandfather ruling the table with the same almond chicken, egg foo yong, little saucers of hot mustard. In the ceiling theyd mounted a Chinese lantern with red tassels, a kind of three-story castle clinging upside down to the roof of heaven. Depending where we sat, my sisters and I could watch lit scenes in each castle walla maiden crossing a footbridge, peach trees in blossom, two birds on a branch leaning toward each other, a river tumbling like raw silk through a gorge. I always wanted to watch the birds, wanted only the maroon booth in the back, not the ebony chairs, and so did my cousin Diana who wore plum-colored lipstick and teased her hairtheyre love doves, she whispered from the high throne of high school, ginger and garlic rousing my mouth.

The next time we saw her there, months later, Diana was sway-backed and swag-bellied, her eyes sad and defiant at once, hand pressed to the small of her back, a silver moon pendant shining between mountains of bosom. She watched the lovebirds and didnt say anything. I can see it now, my mothers face twisting a wind that scatters all words, Dianas wet eyes and the birds leaning in, quiet after the tumult of love. That night I felt a bird enter and sink down through me, the bird that is thirst, the bird that could drink an ocean and not be quenched, because thirst is both wanting and water and water doesnt want to stop, water wants to let it happen the way Diana let it happen, deliberately, one step after another crossing a bridge, her eyes glassy with knowledge and so quiet afterwards, I saw what shed been looking at all that time, the wings of two birds going so fast a blur of stillness, water roaring through a gorge each droplets great quiet flight silence, like when your mother calls out, her voice dark with suspicion,