IV
He remembers the dark street and the sun
Just rising. Beloved demi-monde,
That life is gone. In his hand
The crescent moon of a broken saucer,
A torn admission to the domestic theatre.
Under his hat the memory of stars.
ALFRED CORN
From 1992
8.
1974
I'm with Walter now, he's driving, we've left
D. C. behind as we make our way northwest
through Maryland to Harper's Ferry - our first
road trip together, one of the scarce occasions
when we have time to go into our origins.
In shards and fragments, he gives the story
of his ancestors, gentlemen farmers in Hungary,
the War, the betrayals, the grandfather who
didn't survive Auschwitz;
the grandmother who did, her life as a cook
in Catskill resort hotels, lately retired
at a group home in Detroit. His own mother's death.
Silence and a hand placed lightly on his
are as much as I can do. Trees rushing by,
a sinking sun caught in them. Wordlessness,
more than anything else, was how we communicated.
