Anyway by Richard Siken

He was pointing at the moon but I was looking at his hand.

He was dead anyway, a ghost. I'm surprised

I saw his hand at all. The moon, of course, is always

there—day moon, but it's still there; behind the clouds but

it's still there. I like seeing things: a hand, the moon, ice

in a highball glass. The moon? It's free, it doesn't

cost you anything so go ahead and look. Sustained attention 

to anything—a focus, a scrutiny—always yields results.

I'd live on the moon probably except I think I'd miss

the moonlight, landscaping craters with clay roses in earthshine

and a reasonable excuse to avoid visiting hours

at the mental hospital. In space, no one can hear you

lying to your mom: "Can't make it, Mom. It's

a really long schlep." The coffee's weak and the coffee cake's

imaginary. You're not missing anything. Inside: a day room

and a day pass. Outside: a gazebo under a jackfruit tree.

The other inside: a deeper understanding of the burden

and its domestic infrastructure. Make yourself white.

Make yourself snow but the black bears trample

your landscape like little black dots that show up on x-rays.

It is not enough to be a landscape. One must also become

the path through the landscape, which is creepy. Truly.

The sun melts the snow, the bears wander off, the leaves

tremble like all my sad friends. I can still see his hand.

Once, in a fable, the moon woke the dead. Buried

underground, its light was too much to bear. How did it

get there? Greed. The brothers who owned it had it

buried with them. Later, St. Peter hung it in a tree.

The dead went back to bed, allegedly. One wonders why

a story like this exists. Who wrote it and to what end?

An ingenious solution: trees. Cashew, avocado, fig,

olive. Put it in a tree. Hide it in plain sight and climb

higher. We are all of us secret agents, undercover in our

overcoats, the snow falling down. Little black dots.

Some dream of tall things—trees, ladders, a rope trick.

My dreams are filled with bricks, or things in the shape

of bricks. Rectangles in the hot sun. A cow, a car,

a carton of cigarettes. Even my imagination sleeps

when I sleep and why not rest? Why crash the party

on the astral plane? You'll just be too tired to go 

to the real party later. Have you ever eaten

Swedish meatballs at a dream party? They taste like

your blanket, because they are your blanket.

My imagination wants breakfast burritos. It refuses

to punch the clock until then. I could eat six but then

I'd need a nap. A breakfast that puts you back to sleep

is useless. Dear bears, we must not hibernate!

The bathroom tile is always wet and slippery and the door

from sleeping to waking always sticks and squeeks

but I have arrived, triumphant, with corporate coffee!

Tawnya has written our names on the paper cups

in her immaculate cursive. Her eyes are dead

and lusterless but her heart is in the right place, I guess.

Somewhere deep in her chest, I guess.

We take our hats off and get down

to business. "You got plans tonight, Dick?"

"Eight dollar spaghetti dinner and all you can sing

karaoke at the Best Western. Gonna school

Pace and Killian in the finer points of falsetto.
"
Not even one hour later: smoke break

in the breezeway by the handicapped bathroom.

Why is it we believe we only have one soul?

Because it's easier to set the table for one. And you can

sing your dinner tune to yourself while you eat over the sink.

The throat of the sink: silent. The throat of the argument:

more silverware, a tablecloth, gratitude, more souls.

A kid under a tablecloth isnists he's a ghost. A table

underneath a tablecloth is, I guess, like the rest of us,

only pretending to be invisible. Or worse:

dressed for work and not in the mood for, you know,

how it all plays out, always the same ways, boring times infinity.

"When I grow up I'm going to be a truck,"

says the kid underneath the tablecloth, and that's one way

to deflect the weight of the inevitable, to insist on possibility

in the face of grownups and the pumace of their compromises.

The trees die standing. My Spanish teacher told me this.

I had conjugated the verbs beforehand and taped them

to the bottom of my sneaker. Cheater, yes. Also uninvested

in the outcome. She could tell. Nothing to be done about it.

Verbs of being and verbs of action. We, neither

of us, were doing much anyway at the time and the room was

too hot. I think she meant unroot, which is a good thing to mean

but a difficult thing to hear when you're living under someone

else's roof. I climbed trees then, too. Then climbed back down.

How do I tell you how I got here without getting trapped

in the past? I suppose that's a bigger question than I expected.

"Hey Dick, tell ‘em about that one time when we made out.

That was a good time." Yes, it was. And yet

should we really spend our velocities on backwards motion?

Yes. Any motion, every motion. It's spring, green, take off

your coat, pull down your cap, roll up your sleeves, we're

hunting, we're arrows, we're stag in a meadow, in a frenzy.

"Like I said, Dick. That was a good time."

Soul 1: Was it a good time?

Soul 2: I had fun. You seemed to like it.

Soul 3: He's no Neil Armstrong.

Soul 2: Few are.

Neil Armstrong: Hush.

"He was such a colicky baby. Always fussing and crying.

As if he didn't want to be here at all. Right, Dicky?
"
No, mom. I don't remember. And you're not supposed to be

in this part of the poem. You come back later, near the end,

with the ghost and the hand and the moon, after dark, after

the gimlets. "Sweetie, you asked for prompts and it's getting dark

on the East Coast. Tick tock. And don't type drunk.
"
Dear East Coast, I'm sorry it's getting dark. It must be problematic,

living in the future, always a few steps ahead, knowing

things you shouldn't say, since they haven't happened

to the rest of us yet. And Poland? I don't dare wonder

what you know about tomorrow. "Your grandma was from Poland.
"
I know, mom. And grandpa was handsome and you

were the smart one and the pretty one. "Still am. Poor Barbara.

You know, Dicky, I've been out of the hospital for a while now.

Remember how you promised you wouldn't write about me

while I was alive, Dicky? Remember? So if you're

writing about me that must mean something, yes?"

You're not sticking around for the end, then. "No, you're

doing fine, Squish. And yes, I miss you, too."

We cannot tarry here. We must march, we must bear the brunt.

Smoke break: in the alley by the oleanders, the pink ones.

Dear East Coast, it is getting dark here too now. Suddenly.

"It's getting late, Little Moon. Sing them the song."

It's not that late, Mr. Kitten.

"You are my moon, Little Moon. And it's late enough.

So climb down out of the tree."

Is it safe? "Safe enough." Are you dead as well?

Soul 1: Sing.

Soul 2: Sing.

Soul 3: Sing.

Stag In The Meadow: Sing.

The Black Bears: Sing.

Kid Under The Tablecloth: Sing.

I've been singing all day.

"Yes, you've been singing all day. And no, I'm not dead, not

everyone is dead, Little Moon. But the big moon needs the tree."

There is a ghost at the end of the song.

"Yes, there is. And you see his hand, and then you see the moon."

Am I the ghost at the end of the song?

"No, you are the way we bounce the light to see the ghost."

He was looking at the moon by I was looking at his hand.

He was dead anyway, a ghost. I'm surprised I saw

his hand at all. Once, in a fable, the moon woke the dead.

One wonders why a story like this exists. Who wrote it

and to what end? Sure, everyone wants the same things—

to belong, and to not be left behind—but still, does it help?

Perhaps. Once, in a fable: a man in a tree. Once,

in a fable: the trace of his thinking, the sound of his singing.

I like seeing things: a hand, the moon, ice in a highball glass.

The light of the mind illuminating the mind itself.

Put it in a tree. Hide it in plain sight and climb higher.

We are all of us secret agents, undercover in our overcoats,

the snow falling down.