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I had read of the talking baboons.
Walking the high road through a canopy
of sun-bleached leaves, onto a path spiraling
into a grassy plain, a cast
of hawks, so low I could touch their wings,
fly around me, and then I see a hut -
mud-caked sides, a hearth and a chair inside
where I sit and watch low clouds swoop
down and kiss this magnificent meadow.
At that moment, two baboons enter
as if they visited this place every day,
though there are no signs of usage in many days.
"Hell o," I say. "Hell o," the larger baboon says.
I try to act natural, asking his name.
"Levereck." He speaks in a clipped British way.
"I have nothing to offer," I say.
"Have a beer with us." He points
to a brown paper bag holding loose cans
of Guinness draft.
We sit together drinking warm beer at 10,000 feet,
not saying much - a comment or two
on the weather, my climb to this place - a winter's
breath from the stars, and later
when we are settled in front of the fire
I will bring up books, the Classics I know
these inspiring monkeys store on shelves
in tree houses wherever they are.
MIRROR
Doe eyes follow my hands
when I talk of things
I see before her - her own
apartment, school, maybe a job,
yes, at some point
no more welfare. Deep within
the pupil, I see the red
of the van behind me
reflected. I sense
in the crinkle
of her lip, the tight line
of her jaw, her ears pricked
forward, the tension
she must feel when she thinks
of these things
she never believed
possible. I'm not a magician.
I don't hold the secrets
to any lost civilization,
or a key to ancient Egyptian
pyramids, or know the number
of steps to Machu Picchu.
I'm simply a man who speaks
in a voice, I suddenly realize,
the same as my father's - words
very different, the tone
of assurance exactly the same.
BITTER ROOT
I replay the scene over and over
in my head - presents long open,
half-empty mugs of Grand Union
house blend still warm
in our hands, small talk fades
into more quiet than I'm ready
to bear. He rocks slowly,
looks at me, the tree, back to me.
After it's over, she cleans
herself, like she doesn't want it
on her, like it's bad or something.
I want someone to call out -
"breakfast, fire." I stare
at my sister's unicorn ornament
wishing it would tumble
and my hands could find usage.
Dishes rattle, mother complains
to herself in the kitchen.
I'm thirty years old, on my
second marriage, I might as well
be in Bosnia trying to talk
to Serbs. It will be twenty years
before I hear mother's version.