Can you tell me what to want now? I can’t go on, no turning back. We’d sing, “Jesus on the main line, tell him what you want. Just call him up, tell him what you want, what you want.” But these six months, they came to me, I tell you— tire tracks and footsteps flattened the grass ’round the green tent—my words made such sound toward the crowd—they bent, repented. But I knew I was nothing, I just stalled in the river’s flow. I waited for you, tensed as a dog’s hind leg crouching before bread crusts and melon rinds. Miz Black yowls “Call him up, call him up now!” But you’re here, and I’m blown, a cattail’s sag, I am birds dispersed—pepper in the wind.
Thank you, Morgan, preschool prodigy of likenesses. I hadn’t considered my propane heater so closely, its hot imagery, how, as you declared that winter evening in my kitchen, munching a chip two-handed like a squirrel, the heater’s line of flames looks like people. And as your younger sister Ella whirled in pink britches around the kitchen singing flames like people, people dancing, and as you grinned at your own brilliance and the brilliant line of half-blue half-orange folk you culled up with spark of thought and vapor of breath, I saw them too, figures swinging hips with whippy fervor to the beat of ignition.
Born seeking likenesses, each of us. We secure a simile, like the wild Ella scooped and wrapped in her father’s arms, let it burn to purer metaphor, let it cool as we celebrate, as we praise our precocity. Really, we praise the world, we delight in its many wrought likenesses.
I know the one I want when I find it. Turning them over, like tortoises, rubbing their ridged underbellies, their curves, their pocked histories of love and grief,
I palm the one that speaks my other name, the one whom I become this still moment, lead-light, soft as chalk, right as spring after weeks of needling sleet, the dumb tomb.
I run my tongue along its edges, taste the sharp consonants, the gush of vowel, the salt that grits the honest surface, telling its years in the still pool of tears.
A stone in a heart made of sorrow, a node in a kidney (gorgeous agony), a missile thrown to break the martyr’s skull, a stranger at the gates of the body’s love.
I press it down hard in the good dirt next to the one I loved best yesterday, assembling the poem, stone by sudden stone, faithful as flesh to its house of bone.
Study war no more
Mar 18, 2011
Michael Izbicki grew up in a nondenominational church in California. A National Merit Scholarship finalist, he chose to go to the U.S. Naval Academy out of a sense of duty to his country during a time of war. At the naval academy he began to doubt whether the career to which he had committed himself could be squared with the tenets of just war doctrine. He got in trouble when he responded no to this exam question: "If given the order, would you launch a missile carrying a nuclear warhead?" After a four-year legal battle, the navy discharged him as a conscientious objector. Izbicki may have to reimburse the service for part or all of his education (New York Times, February 22).