‘There’s some mighty good water in Tennessee’*
Tonight, America, the stars above you have been blotted out
by flitting shapes, like huge moths attracted
to haloes of darkness that form around pools
of doubt, smutches of innuendo, whispered
confidences in bars; the more implausible, the deeper
the ravines cut by these rivers of pitch,
the more enticing their deltas, glossy as onyx.
So they have come from afar to look at you, America,
and now their gauzy drift settles
over the islands of Puget and Penobscot,
scrimlight of your ordinary evenings dimmed
beneath their feathered jostling.
And why not? Haven’t you earned some portent
to mark these times? Shouldn’t huge storm-clouds be rushing
to pound like breakers on the reef of your cities, Joshua trees
uncannily bursting into flame beside littered highways,
flattened corn like notes in a Sousa requiem for an empire?
(—here, where the purple light of Canberra’s dusk
fills this room at the back of the house
my regrets won’t stir a blade of your prairie grass
even as they form around your name —)
America where Hart Crane came ashore,
where I linger on a corner while Stevens pauses to write
something on an envelope; I wave at Berryman drinking
alone in Hopper’s bar. America was an intricate
machine, a timing light shone
into the engine well of neighbourhoods and precincts,
an inscribed disk sent into the future.
America from where my brother and I would emerge
to walk home from the little local cinema we’d been to for the matinee.
You turned the real world into plywood,
a papier-mâché bricolage plastered over
the cold late afternoon. America
the stories you told about yourself in technicolour
bore a fidelity to the colours of another reality
not ours, a soundtrack out of sync
with the words we spoke.
America, your pure products address you.
They declaim from the commerce on your riverbanks,
from your deserted promontories,
from your heartland constructed like a filmset
in a language
scattered and capacious, its talismans stashed
in mangroves and malls,
beacons off the bluff, the cape, your resonant shores;
no hamlet so mean, so forgotten
off a byway, it will not have its place
in your poems of highways and lakes.
(— not you, not here, not now, say the cockatoos
their call like straps of darkness tightening.
The reticence of our drawl
stretches like an ill-fitted sheet to its continent until
we learn that we too are located by names
that move like windlight through the casuarinas —)
Tonight, I’m thinking of what America meant
to the camp inmates like my Dad, crowded around a window, April 1945.
They asked the one who could look out
‘can you see them, the Americans? Can you see them yet?’ and when
they arrived, the Sixth Armored Division, when they entered
the camp, how amazed he was, my Dad, still a teenager,
who had never seen an American.
America, I’m thinking too about that accused woman.
How perhaps, in her last years, she found deep wells of that fine water
in Tennessee. About the angels that she found there.
* Abraham Lincoln’s advice as defence attorney to an abused woman on trial for murdering her husband in self-defence, whereupon she absconded and was not pursued further.
Shortlisted, Atlanta Review International Poetry Prize 2022