Via Negativa

~ (Thismia rodwayi) 


There's a small, red-orange flower
that pokes up like a tongue from under
damp forest cover, as if without 
stem and leaves. 

The plant guides say it doesn't 
have any green pigment allowing 
absorption of energy from light— 
Perhaps it was born under 

a serious star, on a broody 
night. Perhaps it gets by 
through a kind of ironic 
detachment: wanting little,

it's often overlooked 
despite its lightbearing 
name. Like it, I wish I could 
slip, subterranean, through life.

How can our cracked, 
exhausted hearts brave the elements, 
so far below, as if in a well? Above,  
bits of blue show through clouds.   

        With our little nephew, in December 
we cut out dozens of paper snowflakes 
               and taped them to the front windows. 
Where he lives, they get real snow 
        in winter— like, more than seven inches, 
whereas we on the coast are lucky to get 
               a dusting. I was today years old when I 
remembered, after rereading Dante, 
        that the lowest circle of hell is not 
actually a blazing inferno but a frozen  
               tundra where hundreds of sinners 
are buried up to their necks in ice.  
         And the coldest of them is Satan, of course— 
having fallen from such a great height, he caused 
               such rapid cooling in the atmosphere 
which followed him into the deepest circle of hell.
         There he is, the central cooling system where 
the sun never shines, beating gigantic bat-like wings.
               Hell must be anywhere or anytime you feel
stuck without sight of reprieve— Thinking about that
         makes my heart constrict. Water bubbles dropped
on ice, swirling with crystal dendrites and fern frost,
               are sharp with beauty at the edge of grief.       

            after sixty is like when a poet of a certain
age is told they shouldn't expect to have work
       picked up by the hottest magazines or
journals, or land in those Best of...
            lists. My muscles are fine, 
thank you. I appreciate both the power
       of restraint and the joy of 
spontaneity, the frisson of a seductive
            opening (perhaps like the title  
of this poem). Once, I entered an epic-
       poem writing competition, mostly
from irritation; some male poets I knew 
            were going on and on about how
it was all a matter of length and 
       endurance. Really. I scoffed. I could  
tell you about endurance, and about how sexy
            is perhaps one of the most 
misunderstood of qualities we like to lob
       around in this late-twenty-first-
century-nearing-apocalypse period. I've heard
             that Barrel Woman is one variation of
the carved Barrel Man souvenir sold to tourists
       in the Cordillera: instead of a phallus, 
breasts spring out to titillate. Scholars say this 
             is really a product of colonization, 
since indigenous sensibility saw no shame in going 
       around clad only in loincloths and woven 
skirts. Back in the nineteenth century, we 
              were seen only as dark and exotic.
From there, connect the dots. How many times  
       have we walked unblinking past catcalls and  
Hey, ma-GAN-da ka (accent totally on the wrong 
               syllable)? In 1565, Spanish explorers  
thought Syquijor island was on fire; it was the light
        from clouds of fireflies in the molave 
trees. It's said the slightest look or brush 
               of a hand while walking in the town
could mean hex or enchantment. That's sexy.

            The crossword clue was small 
instrument, seven letters. Eventually 
      it led to pianino, which I've never 
heard before but apparently is the mid-
            eighteentth century forerunner of 
the upright piano. Sometimes I think of how  
      my life might be different, if my parents 
had their way and trundled me off to conservatory
            though every now and then, they'd sigh
Musicians always eat last. I didn't like 
      the idea of hours-long daily practice, 
for a performance opportunity that might never 
            materialize— I mean, I knew even then 
I was no prodigy. People talk about enjoying 
      the process and not the goal; so it was 
good to hear the great Yuja Wang say on BBC 
           television, I kind of want the goal 
without the process. Hard to believe, when she's
      powering through three hours of Rachmaninov 
on a concert stage with her pixie haircut, 
           five-inch stilettos, sparkly thigh- 
and shoulder-baring outfits. I will never be 
      a Yuja Wang. Instead, for the last 
forty-plus years I've been teaching students
           how to read poems and stories. I live
in a house with far too many books and not enough 
      counter space. The backyard is a scraggly
mess, and raccoons have tried to stake a claim
           on the southwest corner by the fence  
for a communal bathroom. But from June to August,  
      the lone fig tree shakes out its lushest  
green dress beaded with so much fruit you wouldn't  
           believe. It may not know it, but it gives  
me so much joy all summer long, this thing I had  
      no hand in bringing to life, this thing I
can have no quarrel with enough to say I am done
           with everything, and I am done with you.

"Truth should sting, in its way,
like a major bee, not a sweat bee."
                   ~ Diane Seuss


      And so I can totally relate when I read  
             the transcript of an NPR feature on familial
estrangement my husband sends me. I too feel 
      blindsided. I still don't have a clear idea 
about why exactly my eldest child won't talk
             to me or to the rest of the family. No doubt 
this is intentional. It doesn't feel like 
      a momentary tantrum. It's been months. No,
a year, more than a year. I'm not looking
             for epiphanies. This is not a narrative
poem nor even a confession. As young people say
      these days, It's not always about you. I'm not 
even sure it's absolution I want or need. I've been 
             stung over and over, none of this 
necessarily easier with time. Who are we kidding? 
      I doubt it, but perhaps I'm past the age of rue. 
Rue, from the Greek root reuo, which means to set free 
             besides to regret. Whoever said Absence 
makes the heart grow fonder is a charlatan of  
      the lowest order. I'm not interested in knowing blue 
hyacinths, tulips, orchids, and lily of the valley 
             mean apology, but I can't not care. What
do I know anyway? I say sometimes; I'm only ___.