BEFORE

Jorie Graham

it came, before the turn in the cherished

wind, what we called history, the turn

towards, all of it more and more

towards—what is it that is 

coming—must come—unfathomable, unbreakable—you want it so, your

future, no the

future, so

badly—you stand

on the threshold of your century as on a high

parapet, brush in hand, a ladder wrinkling the air as it rises,

a kind of singing,

rung by rung—

all of you bowing to it saying thank you, thank you my lucky stars I am living

now—right now—

of all times this is the one now,

the air ahead all tongues, they are actually red why don’t you

see it—& all will burn my friend—

are you there—

where are you now—

is there a place to still be 

out there

now, in the actual future, which came about

after all—because none of this

will survive, though from here, so sun-dappled in

what we called hours, 

long strings of human eagerness, & wonder curiosity hope expectation belief—

(under the skin greed)

(never mind that)

(greed feeling its way into the hours)

but the story above so shiny,

the whole prepared-for-the-future soul nodding, saying you’re welcome, yes,

you’re even more welcome

[I’m letting you go now are you ready]

[I trust you to catch me]

and the afternoon went on forever,

and the path to the walled garden

went on forever,

the repast the Sunday the sunlight burning this leaf then that one, 

the wine on the table, burning,the bread,

the thudding of the minutes inaudible,

of what’s in the minutes, 

that greed,

like a fleet of bombers actually,

as the empty path filled up with men, rows and rows

stacked on the sides,

bodies crying or no longer able to,

a small path maintained for the stretcher-carriers,

but all of this still invisible

[except in the brushstroke]

the one with no legs saying to no one

what’s this all about,

engines, sweat, memory of marching as one,

huddled up till he’s a rag now calling for his mother,

vital fluid seeping into the dirt,

growling of plane circling low,

what’s got you boy,

nerves got you boy,

till the path to this garden delivers its message,

its millions of faces

crying medic, crying mom, one of them whispering this was my home

once, right in there—

this hour—

in our garden—

where I look in my parents’ eyes and see nothing but

a world addressed

face to face, nothing

but the surfaces of things

unbreakable, 

all round us

the sun perjuring itself promising

the world cannot turn on you,

gold firing on every leaf and pane,

ricochet of sunstrikes on glass, twig, stone,

the wall of vines all mouths whispering here you are here you are,

fill your glass the promises shall be kept

& a quiet in the light, a quiet that cannot die,
over our repast in the garden,

my one fear that I would spill the glass 

in the conflagration 

of simplicities.

Those who will never walk again on this earth.

Those who will never walk again

in the shadows of the garden.

What did I become.

Oh, the future said,this train can go faster than this track can withstand,

why not,

we’re heading out, 

it’s speed which is carrying us now,

the vehicle is an illusion,

the bend up ahead you keep squinting into, you can

forget it,

after the bend, wonders, after the bend

the soul will be made to expand—tongues—more tongues—so blue—

whispering a little life

a little more

that’s the ticket

that one day

in the garden

at the small table,

it is coming on evening,

the blossoms have just fallen, all of them, all at once, a gustjust came through,

we can still smell them,

the earth is white with their silks,

no decay taints or wrinkles

mother father child,

it must be Sunday,

the sun has not yet gone,

it fingers around the garden tending, selecting,

who is this speaking here,

the sun touches our jackets where the small boy who is me

must be hearing something,

something unheard of,

he wants to hear it,

he raises his arms out to his sides as if to cry out

but does not,

how happy we are he thinks,

how perfect they are,

my arms rising mid-reach above the blossoms,

my fingers stretching out,

the evening the blossoms the sun descending,

soon there will be a smile,

they will begin to smile

their rare smile,

all is what it seems I am thinking,

he is thinking,

the painter is thinking.

Itis 1898.

We are in the lull

before history dissolves,

before terror comes and demands its payment in full

for what will not be delivered.

We will not be delivered.

(Eduard Vuillard, Repast In A Garden, 1898)