The Broken Home

Crossing the street I saw the parents and the child At their window, gleaming like fruit With evening’s mild gold leaf In a room on the floor below Sunless, cooler—a brimming Saucer of wax, marbly and dim— I have lit what’s left of my life I have thrown out yesterday’s milk And opened a book of maxims. 10 The flame quickens. The word stirs Tell me, tongue of fire That you and I are as real At least as the people upstairs * My father, who had flown in World War I Might have continued to invest his life In cloud banks well above Wall Street and wife But the race was run below, and the point was to win Too late now, I make out in his blue gaze (Through the smoked glass of being thirty-six) The soul eclipsed by twin black pupils, sex And business; time was money in those days Each thirteenth year he married. When he died There were already several chilled wives In sable orbit—rings, cars, permanent waves We'd felt him warming up for a green bride He could afford it. He was "in his prime" At three score ten. But money was not time * When my parents were younger this was a popular act: A veiled woman would leap from an electric, wine-dark car To the steps of no matter what—the Senate or the Ritz Bar— And bodily, at newsreel speed, attack No matter whom—Al Smith or José María Sert Or Clemenceau—veins standing out on her throat As she yelled War mongerer! Pig! Give us the vote! And would have to be hauled away in her hobble skirt What had the man done? Oh, made history Her business (he had implied) was giving birth Tending the house, mending the socks Always that same old story— Father Time and Mother Earth A marriage on the rocks * One afternoon, red, satyr-thighed Michael, the Irish setter, head Passionately lowered, led The child I was to a shut door. Inside Blinds beat sun from the bed The green-gold room throbbed like a bruise Under a sheet, clad in taboos Lay whom we sought, her hair undone, outspread And of a blackness found, if ever now, in old Engravings where the acid bit I must have needed to touch it Or the whiteness—was she dead? Her eyes flew open, startled strange and cold The dog slumped to the floor. She reached for me. I fled * Tonight they have stepped out onto the gravel The party is over. It's the fall Of 1931. They love each other still She: Charlie, I can't stand the pace He: Come on, honey—why, you'll bury us all! A lead soldier guards my windowsill: Khaki rifle, uniform, and face Something in me grows heavy, silvery, pliable How intensely people used to feel! Like metal poured at the close of a proletarian novel Refined and glowing from the crucible I see those two hearts, I'm afraid Still. Cool here in the graveyard of good and evil They are even so to be honored and obeyed * . . . Obeyed, at least, inversely. Thus I rarely buy a newspaper, or vote To do so, I have learned, is to invite The tread of a stone guest within my house Shooting this rusted bolt, though, against him I trust I am no less time's child than some Who on the heath impersonate Poor Tom Or on the barricades risk life and limb Nor do I try to keep a garden, only An avocado in a glass of water— Roots pallid, gemmed with air. And later When the small gilt leaves have grown Fleshy and green, I let them die, yes, yes And start another. I am earth's no less * A child, a red dog roam the corridors Still, of the broken home. No sound. The brilliant Rag runners halt before wide-open doors My old room! Its wallpaper—cream, medallioned With pink and brown—brings back the first nightmares Long summer colds, and Emma, sepia-faced Perspiring over broth carried upstairs Aswim with golden fats I could not taste The real house became a boarding school Under the ballroom ceiling's allegory Someone at last may actually be allowed To learn something; or, from my window, cool With the unstiflement of the entire story Watch a red setter stretch and sink in cloud