The Size of
Spokane
The baby isn't cute. In fact
he's
a homely little pale and headlong
stumbler. Still, he's one
of us
-- the human beings
stuck on flight 295 (Chicago to Spokane);
and when he
passes my seat twice
at full tilt this then that direction,
I look down
from Lethal Weapon 3 to see
just why. He's
running back and
forth
across a sunblazed circle on
the carpet-something brilliant,
fallen
from a porthole. So! it's light
amazing him, it's only light,
despite
some three and one
half hundred
people, propped in rows
for
him to wonder at; it's light
he can't get over, light he can't
investigate
enough, however many
zones he runs across it,
flickering himself.
The umpteenth time
I see
him coming, I've had
just about enough; but then
he notices me noticing
and stops-
one fat hand on my armrest-to
inspect the oddities of me.
*
Some people cannot
hear.
Some people cannot walk.
But everyone was
sunstruck once, and
set adrift.
Have we forgotten how
astonishing this is? so practiced all
our senses
we cannot imagine them? foreseen instead of seeing
all the all
there is? Each spectral port,
each human eye
is shot through with a hole,
and everything we know
goes in there, where it feeds a blaze. In a
flash
the baby's old; Mel Gibson's
hundredth comeback seems
less clever; all his chases and embraces
narrow
down, while we
fly on (in our
plain radiance of vehicle)
toward what cannot stay
small forever.
~ Heather McHugh
~
(Hinge and
Sign)
(left button to play, right button
to save)