No Fixed Addressee

Acuminate lines crease the reams unpacked,
separated leaf by leaf,
made to sit on each other
sheet by sheet,
padded, tapped firm on all four sides
so that I can see the size of the puzzle
I have set them today.
You see,
they want to re-
define me.

Woven words run together
unevenly
depending on how you look at them.
Sometimes they move backward
sometimes forward
and today they are shifting
sideways.

How far round the globe
shall I go to secure them?
Which latitude is best?
With whom shall I sleep?
How far shall I travel                                                                
to see where the lines will rest?
How often do I need to return
to see how weary they have worn?

It's time for lateral thinking.

Take the memory of my grandfather's eyes --
deep scorched ebony eyes
cooled by cataracts;
take the memory of my grandmother's eyes --
eyes clear as thin blue soup
doting upon her only son
even as he lies still and imperturbable
in the ground.

And how would they have me write these eyes?
That I see them only in one place?
That I see them with only one pen?
On a comfortably bound page?

For those who need to be comfortable
in a place that measures how far the pen must travel,
this is useful.
For when I hear them ask themselves
whose definition I should follow --
whether to lean this way or that on my journey,
it is necessary for me to stop
fix my visor
sweep the room clean of boundaries
with a smile or frown --
it doesn't matter --

it is not who will care;
it is that I am satisfied.

Yet I look around still
and ask:  Who cares?
Needling lines,
these boundaries.

With stealth you can slip through
Anancy your way
over the boundary walls,
for the closer they veer
the more you see
that they are little precipices.

Step over the wall.
Glide down
No --
Fly down
on the fumes of your ink.
From here you can see new worlds
from back to front,
sideways;
you can see
the whole bloody comfortable compound
that you've left behind.

Aahh, isn't the gliding sweet.
Gives you time to think
laterally,
prepare for the landing
in another zone.

Consummate lines
cris-crossing
coursing the Universe
receive me.
A fine laced pillow of surprises
greets my giddy head.
Pen and paper are waiting.

Here my voice is always new.
From here I see all boundaries a-new.
I can see their underbellies.
From here you can smell the fear --
write about it.
From here you can smell their expectations --
feel it.              

From here you can dissect their requirements --             
interpret it.
You must sing
and sculpt
and dance
and write this too.

So I shall take my mothers
where I wish,
with their flesh
high on my nose,
wherever I find them;
I shall take lovers
to remember them stifling with life
wherever I find them:
in a cuttlefish in Sydney Harbour,
in a shark's upturned belly in Port Royal,
in the eyes of a Saxon warrior
guarding Wurzburgian rivers,
on the rocky hills
where banana plants creep down steep embankments
and, finding suppler soil,
take root against the wicked St Elizabeth wind,
on a old mahogany dresser
curved like a big-bellied woman                        
with wide brown arms  
piled high with the dust of my memories
close and sleepy.

And I shall sleep when I want to
with those who love to glide sweet
laterally, into another zone,
listening to the wind
whistling sideways.

First published in a series entltled "The Poinsettia Field" in Camouflage (Bloodaxe Books (England) /Dufour Editions (USA), 1998