Five Remedies for Sadness

Aquinas suggests five remedies for when the fizz
bottoms out of the champagne, for when the balloon tied to the body
can’t even lever a dust mote to save the day— Not: Wallow in ballads from the jukebox,
dance with one arm wrapped around your neck, the other your shoulder. Not: swallow
every cachou that smells faintly of burnt almonds. He is firm and eschews improv:
first, he says, grant yourself something you like— And yes, I like the idea of a bateau
going by the name “Pleasure,” bobbing on the surface of the oily water, ready to punt
headfirst toward somewhere other than here. Second, assuage your sorrows
in the form of weeping. Have a good cry, find some little refreshment in catharsis, for
just as laughter does not take away from joy, tears do not damage sorrow. In a souq,
keepsakes are sold: tear catchers of glass tipped with bronze or silver, spindles to keep
lacrimae harvested from each eye. I’ll bring back just one each for you, my daughters— no
more than that. Something to show by way of novelty to your friends, yes? & your gremlin?
Next, contemplate the truth of your sadness: its peculiar song inducing ear worm,
or when it coincides with cravings for chocolate and chips, according to your journal.
Patchouli’s next; or a peppermint scrub, followed by naps on the couch or hammock.
Quell sadness by bathing and sleeping, is his final note. That’s right, no J(k).
Reviewed, remixed, his remedies read a bit like New Age— not medieval— wisdom. I
sag sometimes beneath the peculiar sorrow of being the one my children turn to when each
tangos with her own demons. Then I get FaceTime and phone calls frantic with sobbing,
urgent pleas for help. Thomas, what else can you tell me of sorrow branching from sorrow? Of
visceral pains that tear me up, head-heart-psyche, because of my mother-nature?
When finally I fall into sleep (after a hot bath, as prescribed),
xylems pull from the roots of old fears and swell with pressure. Pane, panic
yeasts from similar spores? Oh to starve forever what feeds on the bread of misgiving. Rhumb
zeroing in on the mother of cures for malaise: just not enough to numb, and not yet nirvana.

 

In response to St. Thomas Aquinas.

Mammatus

What kind of cloud is that? our traveling
companion asked, peering at the bobbled

masses suspended like teats on the underside
of a thunderstorm, like follicles of cream—

And if snow or rain fell now,
tilting back our heads

would we most clearly resemble
our ongoing hunger, would we open

and open as in that first instinctive
prising-then-latching, that gasping

for breath between the beginning
and the rest of the curving track—

 

In response to Via Negativa: Impediment.

Coy Anatomies

No one promised there would be signposts.
So I found my way best, closing my eyes

and trying to recall what stood there
the last time— a pair of ancient magnolias

crowding the scrap of yard, machine shop
on the street corner. Rows of apartments

painted ghastly pink next to the yellow
shingled hotel. When I sat down to dinner

in the Japanese restaurant, before tea
was poured I recognized the paneling,

the wide fireplace studded with river stones;
stands of ancient bamboo on the periphery—

how did it come to pass that price lists
for hibachi and all-you-can-eat lunch

were pinned beside the stately double doors?
Someone, something else lived there before,

wanting a quieter life. In the taxi,
the radio was on: a voice speaking of how

fakery abounds— unless you have
an expert eye, it’s hard to tell

if a deep red carpet scrolled with vines
and curling branches was woven in Iran

or China. Bounty of fruit spread out
at every stall in the crowded streets—

muskmelons, sapodillas, masaflora;
and always, in the middle of them all,

one cheek cut open under a plastic film
as though to swear: surface matches surface.

 

In response to Via Negativa: Cezanne's Doubt.

Trusting the process

Dear shadow slipping its soft
hood over our shoulders at dusk,

the insects begin once again
to speak: is it wearying to hear

their same recitals, to finger
those sharp edges of cold

whose only purpose seems to be
our unbodying? Everything wants

to be accounted for, to be told
somehow it is remembered

if not loved— even the two
pieces of fruit that darken

in the bowl are only teetering
from one kind of sugar to another.

 

In response to Via Negativa: Owls and rabbits.

Primula

Such a wet, grey day
in January, just a few weeks

before the year of the monkey.
So why not give in to the whim?

The monkey is spontaneous;
the monkey would understand

the notion of the swerve,
the vivid pull of bright

yellow. It’s only a basket
of primroses on the store shelf.

Kept at room temperatures,
yet they are short-lived.

At most, six months
indoors. The plants fade

with the last of the blossoms,
then shrivel back into the sod.

Yes? No? Yes? Sometimes
it comes down to how close

that spongy bed feels, how
moist or dry its gaping heart.

 

In response to Via Negativa: Miners.

Looking for Lorenzo

Visiting my hometown for 3 weeks this past summer, I stayed
with my youngest daughter in a hotel whose name made me think
of a famous poet from Santiago de Chuco. Built in 1909,
much of the architecture was still the same—

slate-colored shingles angled as if on purpose against weeks
of pouring rain; dark wooden interiors, thin, uninsulated walls
that barely kept out the cold. I had to ask for an extra blanket
at the front desk, and the girl on duty said shyly, Extra

30, Ma’am. I asked Dollars? per day? At which
she shook her head— No, pesos, 30 only one time, Ma’am.
Then later, knocked softly to bring a thin blanket that felt
like Military wool. I thought mostly of my grandfather Lorenzo,

who mother says came to work here as a cook when he was only 19,
and stayed 5 years. This was during Peacetime, before WWII.
I don’t know how old Lorenzo was when my mother was born
in the city, but I do know they lived for a time

in Jungletown, parts of which I could glimpse from the windows
of the hotel dining room. Each morning, when we made our way
to breakfast down the graceful curving staircase, I saw
the wait staff quietly going about their business—

buffing the floors, pouring coffee, bringing trays
of bread or mountain rice, platters of eggs and venison
or eggs and local sausages or dried fish. I sent back
the sugar and milk, I asked for bottled water; I asked

for local honey, for finger bowls of onions and fresh
tomatoes, for cup after cup of brewed Benguet coffee—
just to extend the time we could have for small
conversation. One of our regulars, so boyish

in face and slight in the loose grey colonial
porter styled uniform, told us the day before we left
that his name was Choco; he would not see us again,
because his baby was sick and he was taking the next

day off. You have a baby? I would never have guessed,
I said. He smiled and said he was a Communication graduate,
but could not yet find a better job; and had a wife
and child to support. I settled our bill and left

what I hoped was a generous tip. The rain never once
let up during our visit; and I never saw the ghost
of Lorenzo in the musty hallways, never saw hint of the one
white suit he liked to wear, his very own signature.

Cravings

Salty chips, the vinegar and black
pepper kind. A plate of rice
topped with curled leaves of dried
fish flash-fried in the pan.
(Who cares how long the smell
clings to the furniture and drapes?)
Steamed kai-lan drizzled with chili
oil, pucker of a pickled plum;
the odd marriage of the green
and bitter gourd with sugar
to set the teeth on edge—
My tongue tumbles from one
small station of desire
to the next. Piquant, bitter,
savory, hot: wanting all, taking
all in to feed the gut
that’s always looking to find
the ferment, ever since the first
time it learned about the sweet.