Suzanne Buffam

The committee met on the first of the month to decide once and for all which of
this black planet’s myriad sights most honors the bold, high peaks of the human
heart. A young man brought down his fist with a thud. There is nothing in this
world, he cried, more stirring to the soul than a good parade! Sun striking the
trumpets, the flash of batons, wind licking the flags into blazing bright sails …
Just then a fleet of gold jets roared past the high windows in tight formation.
Everyone looked up and gasped, stars in their eyes, and seemed on the point of
consensus. A frail old man in a pale grey suit and matching cravat cleared his
throat. Slow ripples moved through the room as he spoke, firmly, and not without
eloquence, on behalf of the twin Spanish replica tall ships that had sailed that
Spring into harbor, bringing sailors and replica guns, firing replica cannons into
the salt-sweetened air each evening at nine o’clock sharp. Some smiled to
themselves and looked at their hands, some gingerly closed their reports, leaned
forwards in their seats and eyed the heavy wooden gavel in the chairman’s hand.
But I, who had been listening at the door for some time, distracted from my task
(as happens often, and for which I am often sternly rebuked), slipped down the
dim hall and out into the night where I joined the parade that had swallowed you.

At second glance the leaves are bright green
and the dog is asleep. The omelette slides
from the pan intact. No one we know
serves us tea. It is sweet. It tastes faintly
exotic but also sad, like the jasmine blossoms
wilting in our hair. High, high above,
clouds grind light into dust-motes.
Because we have not died yet of hope,
nor its opposite, we remain here among
these creaturely feelings, indentured
to the small brown birds that will not
light on our hair. So be it. Our shadows
on the grass may be luckier, although
their fate is such that they won’t know it.

Sometimes I eat an orange and completely forget about dying. Nonetheless, the
thought of home can reliably be said to bring tears to the eyes of any traveller.
When the sailor travels inland, he misses not so much the sight of the ocean as the
sound it makes beneath him at night when the world has disappeared and there are
only stars above to guide him. Perhaps he also misses the smell of creosote in the
breeze, but it remains so utterly abstract in its absence he cannot properly be said
to feel the lack. On the other hand, I find it possible to miss what I have never
known. My voice has been described as nondescript, yet I continue to use it. I
call to the hills and to the good people in them. I call to hear the sound of my
own voice. The truth is, I seldom think about home at all. To grow up at sea is a
mixed blessing, granted, but show me a blessing that isn’t.

That was a happy station, full of sunshine and cabbage.
You could sit among the thinkers for hours,
thinking anything you wanted. You could think
about your kingdom and feel a small stab of remorse,
or you could cultivate an interest in the funnel-shaped
webs leading down through the grasswort
towards what toothed and cruel centre lay waiting.
Knees were for kneeling. Lashes were for looking
at the sun. The river was slow and it hurried.
Trains slowed down but did not stop.
Wherefore was the question on everyone’s lips
though none spoke it, nor plucked it away
but let it hang there like an overripe pear
left out for the gleaners to dispute in the fall.
Every horse had three different names, each one
more purple than the last. Sir Gromore Somyr Joure
took the day every day until the very day
he retired. Did I love that dark horse?
I did not. His breath stank of cabbage.
He bit the hands that fed him. He would stand
in bad weather and refuse the boxwood gate.
But I was there in the fray and the fanfare,
I was there in the dooryard, and I was there
when they laid him down cold to the earth.

One hand flashes a mirror at the sun.
The other casts the shadow of a wing.
*
One hand opens a window.
The other hand lowers a lid.
*
One hand holds a nail.
The other hand loses the hammer in the grass.
*
One hand wears a ring.
One wears a scar where a ring used to be.
*
One hand tears up a note.
The other hand tapes back the petals on a rose.
*
One sifts through a box of old photographs for the boy half-buried
in sand.
One hangs the empty frame back on its hook.

*
One wrenches a nest from the crook of a branch.
One finds enough dropped feathers to build a whole bird.
*
One builds a box.
One buries the bird on the ridge.
*
One locks up the cabin.
One turns back the hands of a clock.
*
One grips the railing.
One drops a silver chain into the lake.
*
One presses a small yellow bud between the chapter on love
and the chapter on desire without an object.
One leaves the book out in the rain.
*
One hand tests the waters.
The other hand traces a name across the waves.

Leteti skozi napol zgrajeno hišo,
s prekrižanimi rokami, noge poganjajo pedala
nerodnega stroja, ki je tvoje telo,
še pravočasno odkriti in odstraniti nezanesljivo okensko polico
- potem se spet zbuditi v otroški postelji,
uzreti rob morja
skozi plapolajoče zastore, ali morda skrivno
igro kroketa na zasneženem travniku,
čutiš, da si odkril nekaj bistvenega,
morda izgubo. Ves dan visi v zraku
kot pomladanski dež. Ves dan ti visi v očeh
kot megla. Zamisliš se
s topimi škarjami in potem se nenadoma
oveš, da strmiš v odtok poln pokov.
Potem si tipaš po gležnjih za krili.
Nebo preprosto noče odskočiti, kot je to rado počelo.
Hiša se iz dneva v dan bolj in bolj nagiba proti zahodu.
Kdo lahko vsemu še sledi? Ne mrtvi v svojih predalih
na pobočju, ne poštar, ki polni režo
z nujno zmedo, naslovljeno na prejšnjega stanovalca.
Dejstva se nenehno spreminjajo, a število dejstev
ostaja enako. Sredi dopoldneva je tank prazen,

the sun has replaced the buckle on Orion’s silver belt.
It’s colder and brighter than ever, and even the birds
give off steam, stationed in the poplar
like frets on the neck of a rustic guitar.
After all those years of practice, surely the wind
could pick out a more musical tune. But your heart
hums along. The heavens, you read,
are a mist of dust and gas. You show
the dentist where it hurts
and he removes it.