Itch of an Amputated Leg
I turned up the volume
for 'Waiting for the Man'.
Sweat gathered in the furrows on the forehead
of the man pruning roses
and he squinted to see in our room.
Mopping his brow
he noticed the young American
who returned his smile and passed on by.
His eyes followed her bare legs
and for a moment he remembered...
something without words –
or thought he did.
24 May 1982
Over the past six months I’ve been posting poems that span my relationship with my first wife. I’ve not posted them all—some were just too embarrassing (in more ways than one)—but when you look at the body of work there are some interesting (if only to me) patterns. I’ve already posted ‘Heat’ (#530) and in a while I’ll 
It was very hot in 1982. The young American lived in the block of flats across from us, the building we could see out of our living room window, and I often saw her walking up and down the steps. She was a teenager and pretty without being stunning. And she caught my eye. One of dozens over the years who has. I would love to see them all lined up to see what physical characteristics they have in common but I don’t think that’s it. Mostly I never had crushes on these girls—that’s the kind of thing I’d need regular contact to form (so we’re talking co-workers usually)—but I very much wanted to understand this “at first sight” phenomenon. I’ve kinda always pooh-poohed the notion of love at first sight but we’ve all experienced something similar: we’re walking along the street and happen to meet a stranger’s gaze—full eye to eye contact—for a second, maybe two (although it feels so much longer) and something passes between the two of you, something you can’t put into words and often something a little uncomfortable too.
We’re all familiar with Proust and his madeleine cake
No sooner had the warm liquid mixed with the crumbs touched my palate than a shudder ran through me and I stopped, intent upon the extraordinary thing that was happening to me.
but what I’m trying to capture he is something less, much less. There are only so many faces on the planet and so every one of us will remind someone of someone they’ve once known or met in passing but there are simply too many people to remember. And yet there is a sense of the familiar that persists.
The reason I know she was an American by the way is because her photo appeared in the local rag. I may even still have the clipping somewhere. I don’t think I ever spoke to her or even passed her in the street and my only actual memory of her is of her sunbathing outside our window although she’s not the sunbather in ‘Sunbather’ (#550).
3 comments:
This puts me in mind of a poem by my friend and miglior fabbro Reg Saner, from his book Climbing Into the Roots:
SMILING AT 180
by Reg Saner
You hold it floored, between 90/95
never passing the North Platte,
glimpsing where its gone waters stumbled
and graveled among
a rubbage of mudbark willow.
Crows flapping the bare clod fields
in low gusts.
The black road flapping your tires.
The winter sun in husks.
There was a sea here once.
The slow Nebraska prairie heaves
its thick troughs and swells,
shouldering past into a rear view
at the base of your skull.
Suddenly out of the other direction
the right girl comes along fast
barreling her red Camaro—
a friend’s sock feet
up and sleeping in back.
You each flick a smile forever
at 180
and split wide open
into a small pair of mirrors.
Yes, Joe, you’ve hit the nail on the head here. This is exactly the kind of thing I’m on about although conducted at a more leisurely pace.
Oh yes, this poem captures so much, as does Saner's.
Post a Comment