the archive is all in present tense
Librarians turn slender shadows in the afternoon light
gathering materials along the ledge. Three men exit
a Jeep on a hill side, doors slam in unison. Two orphans
walk into a dance for soldiers. Wind winters down
from the north. Concertina wire unspools
like fat loops of cursive, I’ve always wanted
a boyfriend like you language making it impossible
for her to love me back, though no one could love
me now, preoccupied as I am by war, paging
arrest records, letters, diaries, clippings
in their acid-free envelops. I sort through tea lights,
radio crackles, paper fortune tellers predicting the man
who will marry you, what house he will buy
for you, paper turning to snow in her hands
folding, unfolding.
After the librarians bring
the snow I check if they are watching, then touch the jars,
feel the cold of silence, of waiting. The men pass
concertina wire hand-to-hand as trucks convey
people up the mountain. One orphan creases
his hat, the other smooths her pleats, practices
American slang, a letter turns over to an empty
verso, a blank my want tumbles into. The archive is full
of blanks. So many archivists come before dawn
to catalog them and are still behind.
Librarians bring everything I write on a call slip
without judgement or warning. I write en masse.
I write war bride, I write amnesty, I write savagery
is the natural condition of the human race, I write
I can’t keep my men from the refugee women.
I page dirt from the camp floor, blankets
and hunger, sickness and sorrow. I could page
his service records or the stories he told
about how his commanders liked him so much, they kept
me from all that. I could page the women’s voices
in their velvet bags bound with string. The archive is full
of string, full of wire and casings and food stamp books
and adoption records and wills and transfer requests.
The archive is full of tanks and spears and muskets
and porcelain and dollars and steamboats and axes
and folly and fall. Cataloged, so I can page it all.
Librarians turn slender shadows in the afternoon light
gathering materials along the ledge. Three men exit
a Jeep on a hill side, doors slam in unison. Two orphans
walk into a dance for soldiers. Wind winters down
from the north. Concertina wire unspools
like fat loops of cursive, I’ve always wanted
a boyfriend like you language making it impossible
for her to love me back, though no one could love
me now, preoccupied as I am by war, paging
arrest records, letters, diaries, clippings
in their acid-free envelops. I sort through tea lights,
radio crackles, paper fortune tellers predicting the man
who will marry you, what house he will buy
for you, paper turning to snow in her hands
folding, unfolding.
After the librarians bring
the snow I check if they are watching, then touch the jars,
feel the cold of silence, of waiting. The men pass
concertina wire hand-to-hand as trucks convey
people up the mountain. One orphan creases
his hat, the other smooths her pleats, practices
American slang, a letter turns over to an empty
verso, a blank my want tumbles into. The archive is full
of blanks. So many archivists come before dawn
to catalog them and are still behind.
Librarians bring everything I write on a call slip
without judgement or warning. I write en masse.
I write war bride, I write amnesty, I write savagery
is the natural condition of the human race, I write
I can’t keep my men from the refugee women.
I page dirt from the camp floor, blankets
and hunger, sickness and sorrow. I could page
his service records or the stories he told
about how his commanders liked him so much, they kept
me from all that. I could page the women’s voices
in their velvet bags bound with string. The archive is full
of string, full of wire and casings and food stamp books
and adoption records and wills and transfer requests.
The archive is full of tanks and spears and muskets
and porcelain and dollars and steamboats and axes
and folly and fall. Cataloged, so I can page it all.