Exactly the color
of a grey tear the sky is still
trees a torn yellow color and black
leftover dahlias maybe or mums not to look at...
Inside there
is the delicate frame of a three-month-old fetus
perlite skeletons of Siamese twins
inside there the meek dead and deformed
have been adequately investigated.

I have a self in my own hollow face
a seeing that floats within my bones
a tear of mine more untrappable than organ or femur
a thinking, perceiving tear.

Walk of no nationality in this instant
though the trees look French they aren't French
though I look American I'm animal and tear
I'm grey cloud November speak nothing today
think in English nothing familiar, no familiar thoughts in France.

This is an experiment, Monsieur Buffon,
in whether or not I'm yours or anyone's or my old idea of myself
the answer is I am not, I've thrown those away.

Enter the Ménagèrie of the Jardin des Plantes, for the first time
25 francs, no people too cold and grey, no animal moves today
in the brilliance of yellow and the elegance
the sensuous requiem of grey, I'm shown the souls of animals
with me, into me, not moving no sound.
These are my first real owls, they know me for eyes and a form
the sika knows me, the llama knows me
for a form in a black matte coat, my big eyes empty with
the colors of this park, myself saying to these others
we're like god exalted but we're dead, we're god-on-earth destroyed.

Provincial, silly earth. This my new problem
not wanting to countenance with my eyes like any other animal's
our worldwide city
I want to be dead but not as our technological life is dead
I want to be dead in a thoughtless presence, a topaz presence
like an animal's eye.





© copyright 1996 Alice Notley