[previous] [next] [more by this author] [home]
 
``The Dreadful Has Already Happened''
Mark Strand

The relatives are leaning over, staring expectantly.
They moisten their lips with their tongues. I can feel
them urging me on. I hold the baby in the air.
Heaps of broken bottles glitter in the sun.

A small band is playing old fashioned marches.
My mother is keeping time by stamping her foot.
My father is kissing a woman who keeps waving
to somebody else. There are palm trees.

The hills are spotted with orange flamboyants and tall
billowy clouds move beyond them. ``Go on, Boy,''
I hear somebody say, ``Go on.''
I keep wondering if it will rain.

The sky darkens. There is thunder.
``Break his legs,'' says one of my aunts,
``Now give him a kiss.'' I do what I'm told.
The trees bend in the bleak tropical wind.

The baby did not scream, but I remember that sigh
when I reached inside for his tiny lungs and shook them
out in the air for the flies. The relatives cheered.
It was about that time I gave up.

Now, when I answer the phone, his lips
are in the receiver; when I sleep, his hair is gathered
around a familiar face on the pillow; wherever I search
I find his feet. He is what is left of my life.

 
[previous] [next] [more by this author] [home]