Now that the Summer of Love has become the moss of
And the shadowy mouths of tunnels & all the tunnels lead into the city,
I'm going to put the one largely forgotten, swaying figure of Ediesto
Right in front of you so you can watch him swamp
Out of an orchard in the heat of an August afternoon,
I'm going to let
Keep your eyes on him as he lifts & swings fifty-pound boxes of
Elberta peaches up to me where I'm standing on a flatbed trailer & breathing
Tractor exhaust so thick it bends the air, bends things seen through
So that they seem to swim through the air.
It is a lousy job, & no one has to do it, & we do it.
We do it so that I can show you even what isn't there,
What's hidden.
And signed by Time itself.
And set spinning,
And is only a spider, after all, with its net waiting for what falls,
For what flies into it, & ages, & turns gray in a matter of minutes.
The
Is nothing's blueprint, bleached by the sun & whitened by it, it's what's
After we've vanished, after we become what falls apart when
Touches it, eyelash & collarbone dissolving into air, & time
The boxes we are wrapped in like gifts & splintering
Into wood again, at the edge of a wood.
Black Widow is a name no one ever tinkered with or tried to change.
If you turn her on her back you can see the blood red hourglass
She carries on her belly,
Small as the design of a pirate I saw once on a tab of blotter
Before I took half of it, & a friend took the other, & then the two of us Walked down to the empty post office beside the lake to look,
For some reason, at the wanted posters.
We liked a little
In the ordinary then.
Now a spider's enough.
And this one, in the legend she inhabits, is famous, & the male dies.
She eats its head after the eggs are fertilized.
It's the hourglass on her belly I remember, & the way the figure of it,
Figure eight of Time & Infinity, looked like something designed,
Etched or embossed upon the slick undershell, & the way there was,
The first time I saw it, a stillness in the pattern that was
The stillness of the leaves or the stillness of the sky over the leaves.
After the male dies she goes off & the
Live in the fraying
Of an abandoned web strung up in the corner of a picking box or
Some slowly yellowing grape leaf among hundreds of
Leaves, in autumn, the eggs smaller than the o in this
Or a handwritten apostrophe in ink.
What do they represent but emptiness, some gold camp
In the Sierras swept clean by smallpox, & wind?
Canal school with its three rooms, its bell & the rope you rang it
And no one there in the empty sunlight, ring & after ring & echo.
It magnifies & I can't explain it.
Piedra,
Conejo,
Parlier.
Stars & towns, blown fire & wind.
Deneb & Altair, invisible kindling, nothing above nothing.
It magnifies & I can't explain it. 3 Expressionless spinster, carrying Time's signature preserved &
In blood & hidden beneath you, you move two
To the right & hold still, then one step to the left,
And hold still again, motionless as the web you wait in.
Motionless as the story you wait in & inhabit but did not
And did not repeat.
You wait in the beehive hairdo of the
Sitting across from me in class, wait in your eggs,
Wait in the hair the girl teases & sprays once more at recess.
Lipstick, heels, tight sweater, leather anklet.
The story has no point but stillness itself, absence in a school desk,
The hacked and scratched names visible in the varnished wood,
No one there, the bell with its ring & after ring & echo.
In class,
I remember, she would look back at me with a gaze
Than calm, blanker than a pond's scummed & motionless surface,
Beneath which there was nothing, nothing taking the shape of
Who had already drowned but could not die, & so sat in
Because she had to, because that was the law.
Mrs.
Avery went on & on at the blackboard so we could know Who Magellan & Vizcaino had been, or sometimes she would
The boy who spoke only Spanish read from a book,
Watch him as he used his forefinger to point at each
He would read, read & mispronounce, & stumble over, & go on. §And this isn't much of a story either, but it's one I know:
One afternoon in August, two black widow spiders bit Ediesto Huerta.
He killed them both & went on working,
Went on swinging the boxes up to me.
In a few minutes the
Bathed his face until it glistened, & still he went on working;
And when I asked him to stop he would not &
Seemed to begin to dance slowly in the rhythms of the work,
Swing & heft & turning back for another box,
Swing, heft, & turning back again.
And within a half hour or so,
Without him resting once but merely swinging box after
Of peaches up to me in the heat, the fever broke.
In the middle of turning away again, he stopped dancing,
He stopped working.
He seemed to be listening to something, &
He passed out & fell flat on his back.
It looked as if he had gone to
For a moment.
I let the idling tractor sputter & die, & by the timeI reached him, he had awakened, &, in the next moment, his
Began twitching, his arms & legs danced to something without
And then stiffened, his jaws clenched & his eyes fluttered
And turned a pure white.
I made a stick from a peach limb &
The leaves & shoots off it & stuck it between his
As I heard one was supposed to, &, in this way,
Killed him by suffocation, & so took the stick out & threw it away.
And later lifted him by the one arm he extended to me & pulled him up
The bed of the trailer.
He dangled his legs off the rear of it.
We sat there, saying nothing.
It was so quiet we could hear the birds around us in the trees.
And then he turned to me, &, addressing me in a name as old as childhood,
Said, "Hey Cowboy, you wanna cigarette?" §In the story, no one can remember whether it was car theft or burglary,
But in fact,
Ediesto Huerta was tried & convicted of something, & so, afterward,
Became motionless & silent in the web spun around him by misfortune.
In the penitentiary the lights stay on forever,
Cell after cell after cell, they call their names out, caught in time.
Ring, & after ring, & echo.
In the story, the girl always dies of spider bites,
When in fact she disappeared by breaking into the jagged pieces of
Littering the roadsides & glinting in the empty light that shines there.
All we are is representation, what we appear to be & are, & are not,
And representation is all we remember,
Something hesitating & looking back & caught for a moment.
God in the design on a spider's belly, standing for time & infinity,
Looks back, looks back just once, then never again.
We go without a trace,
I am thinking.
We go & there's no one there,
No one to meet us on the long drive lined with orange trees,
Cypresses, the bleaching fronds of palm trees,
And though the town is still there when I return to it, when I'm
The track is empty beside the station, & the station is boarded up,
Boarded over, the town is overgrown with leaves, with
Tall as windowsills, window glass out & dark inside the shops.
The classrooms & school are gone & the bell, & the
To ring it with, & the boy reading form the book,
On a syllable he can't pronounce & stumbles over again & again. §All we are is representation, what we are & are not,
Clear & then going dark again, all we
Is the design or insignia that misrepresents what we are, &
Behind, & looks back at us without expression, empty road in sunlight.
I once drove in a '48 Jimmy truck with three tons of
On it & the flooring beneath the clutch so worn away I could
The road go past beneath me, the oil flecked light &
Picking up speed.
Angel & Johnny Dominguez,
Ediesto Huerta,
Jaime Vaca & Coronado Solares,
Querido Flacco
And the one called Dead Rat & the one called Camelias;
We go without a trace,
I am thinking. §Today you were lying in bed, drinking tea, reading the newspaper,
A look of concentration on your face, of absorption in
Story or other.
It looked so peaceful, you reading, the bed, the sunlight over everything.
There is a blueprint of something never finished, something I'll
Find my way out of, some web where the light rocks, back & forth,
Holding me in a time that's gone, bee at the windowsill & the
Coming back as it has to, tapping at the glass.
The figure in the hourglass & the body swinging in the rhythm of its work.
The body reclining in bed, forgetting what it is, & who.
While the night goes on with its work, the stars & the shapes they make,
Cold vein in the leaf & in the wind,
What are we but what we offer up?
Gifts we give, things for oblivion to look at, & puzzle over, & set aside.
Oblivion resting his cheek against a child's striped rubber
In the photograph I have of him, head on the table & resting his
Against the cool surface of the ball, the one that is finished spinning, the
He won't give back.
Oblivion who has my face in the photograph, my cheek
Against a child's striped ball.
Oblivion with his blown fires, & empty towns...
Oblivion who would be nothing without us,
I am thinking,
As if we're put on the earth to forget the ending, & wander.
And walk alone.
And walk in the midst of great crowds,
And never come back.
