OCTOBER 31, 2007: Letter to W. Whitman

I consider I am lucky, being American,
for I needn’t cross the ocean
(or else consider the passage of too much time)
to talk to you, which I am glad for
lest I shouldn’t make the journey.

So I suppose I am lucky.

I know a young man who lost his comrades
fighting in Iraq, all killed except for him
and he took for himself the name Lucky
And ‘Lucky’ he will always correct you
if you call him by his Christian name,
which is Edward, or Mike.

And here I lie, sick and trembling with a fever,
sick and trembling, lying in bed. 'Tis Halloween.
I am alone in bed, because my people
are trooping through the jungle, through the night
in crazy clothes that are the rags of time.
They are happy.
And I suppose that I am happy.

Now I am alone,
shall I assume I am writing a poem,
that I am writing this poem,
and that this is the poem I am writing?
If I am writing like you is your voice my voice,
is my voice yours, or was it ever not?
Could I ever choose but to take you at your word.

Insert shipbuilding metaphor!

My people are dressed as monsters
while I am sick in bed
My people are dressed as monsters
and I, here, with hellish head
today have begun to write inside your book
with my own stubby pencil to underline
inscribe in margins thoughts and unthoughts.
For years I have kept your book pristine and virginal
but now upon its many leaves
I write my clumsy messages.

I study your book. I am looking there for anger.
Will I find it?
Is there not anger in your book of everything and everyone?
And is it yours as well, or only mine who look for it?

My people return from pilgrimage,
they shout and bring me chocolate,
offer to me and cover me with sweets,
changing their minds at the last minute,
‘You can have that one—NO!—this one.’
And I am writing my poem to you,
prophesied, of not completely covered, by yours to me.