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That Country's Soul
by Richard Levine
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A Language Full of Wars and Songs
by Richard Levine
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Excerpts
Zero
Though the equivalent of zero, one
extinction is too big for my mind
to hold: suddenly, a hole exists
where a whole lived, and while
not readily known—like a dead
star whose light I still see—it will
fill the universe with more dark,
more distance, more loneliness.
Beauty
One does not meet oneself until one catches the reflection from an eye other than human.
Loren Eisley, The Unexpected Universe
The forest was a messy mix
of mud and ice, and long fallen
leaves made a slick, mysterious,
muddle of decay and miracle
underfoot. I followed tracks
on and off trails, marked the evidence
of scat and chewed bark,
until three deer snapped
to attention at my slogging
approach to the clearing
where they grazed.
Through tree trunks,
a steady, feathery snow,
and the steam streaming
from their muzzles,
their eyes took hold of me.
None of us were able
to move or let go in that
dense, suspenseful medium,
until one snorted.
The other two turned,
leaped and bounded away.
Then, something else changed.
The eyes of the remaining deer—
born of the forest,
chestnut black and brown,
acorn round – blazed darkly
and blinkless, and would not
release me. My stare was just
as stubborn. I didn’t know what
more the moment might want,
or why beauty is so fearsome.
~ That Country's Soul
Field Bandage
Your wound and a field bandage
were sorely mismatched. Still,
as if launching a raft could stop
a river’s hemorrhaging white water,
I tried to plug the red tide.
Morphine tricked your pain, as I held
your intestines in place, irrigating
and waiting for the stuttering air
to pronounce your dog-tag rescue.
I thought I needed to save you to save me.
Shining
To celebrate my return
to Yankee Street, Peter whacked off
the heads of two chickens.
He quick-tied their feet
and with a feathered fling, we
climbed in and drove off,
singing and drinking
warm beer from pop-top cans.
The clutch caught between
gears and the truck bucked,
we rocked and spilled,
and the twitching, headless birds
hosed the cab in blood and feathers.
Driving blind with the mark of evil
spotting us, Peter let go and balefully
waited for me to grab the wheel.
I spit beer through my teeth
until we could see to drive.
Then, I lit a joint and passed it.
The dogs met us on the road,
howling and leaping wild, hell-
hounds in the raised dust.
Sarah was waiting at the house,
corn shucked, coals white-hot.
She was larger than I remember.
Last time was the natural-look year
of bean sprouts and bottled water.
Before that she made up her face
each morning to Ma Rainey
and a jelly-jar of vermouth.
It was just after the war made her
a twenty-one-year old widow.
She carried sorrow like a broken
doll, and wandered weary
into my arms each night.
Now her long legs were outlined
by a clinging child, a pretty
girl with the same straw hair
and sky-distant blue eyes,
shining apprehension and witness.
~ A Language Full of Wars and Songs
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