Taj Mahal
Hanging on the wall was a photograph he took of a lion. I asked him how he got so close, and he replied that the lion told him he could get really close, as long as he took a good picture. My mother asks me if I’ve written about Bruce yet. I tell her “No.” I’m not lacking in language, Just afraid that I’ve been living my life in service of a man I never knew. But Bruce was in the army, so Maybe he’d understand. I imagine he never shook Uncle Sam by the hand. But if he had, Uncle Sam probably would have stood up a little straighter. I want to make peace with the pieces. Eyes like the bullet casings we collected at the funeral, Cheeks crisp as the crust of September, Bones too ornery and orchard to fit the confines of “grampy,” so we call him Bruce. When I am seven, I tell him he’s my special friend. He tells me I’m his special friend too. August, 2004: he presses a ring into my palm. It’s from India, where he served in the war. It’s made from seven silver bands that fit together just-so. He teaches me how to solve it. September: leukemia gorges his marrow to mincemeat. Mom isn’t at home very much. October: The doctors tell him not to stand, so he folds into the driver’s seat and revs the engine to see me one last time. I am thirteen, and from the Bat Mitzvah bimah, I know little of adulthood, only that I hope some boys will slow-dance with me at my party. I notice Bruce, a bit jaundiced, but smiling. He made it. I smile back. November. On the hospice form, he checks “other” next to “how are you feeling,” and writes “philosophical.” An urn on the dining room table. I write “childhood hero” in the dust of a man I never said goodbye to. They fire shells in his honor, My grandmother flails between rows of blue tombstones. I try to trace the ghost of my grandfather, and slice my hands on the jigsaw. Bruce. I swear one day I’ll visit Arlington. I’m sorry that it’s taken me eight years to face you. Did your hands shake when you took photographs. What was my mother like in high school. Where did you learn to talk to lions. Why must this poem taste like surgery. I have forgotten how to solve the ring he gave me. Heirlooms, like grief, don’t come with instructions; they are rich with mud and salt water. Hanging on the wall was another photograph he took of the Taj Mahal, a monument built in memory of a great love lost. Bruce. This poem is not a monument, Nor a resurrection. I know nothing of marble. We sleep in alphabets. I keep a picture of you on my bedside table. This is my attempt to face the lion.
solo by Hannah Van Sciver, fall 2013 show: Raindance
