Fuel

 

With gratitude to many writers who left us in 1997,

their voices ongoing, sustaining—

F

that the mind's fire may not fail.

The
vowels of affliction
, of unhealed

not to feel it
, uttered,

transformed in utterance

to song.

• Title Page
  
• Copyright
  
• Dedication
  

1. Muchas Gracias por Todo
   
2. Bill's Beans
   
3. Wedding Cake
   
4. Genetics
   
5. Because of Libraries We Can Say These Things
   
6. Elevator
   
7. Cape Cod
   
8. Being from St. Louis
   
9. Eye Test
   
10. The Small Vases from Hebron
    
11. Darling
    
12. One Boy Told Me
    
13. Boy and Mom at the Nutcracker Ballet
    
14. Passing It On
    
15. Always Bring a Pencil
    
16. Your Name Engraved on a Grain of Rice
    
17. San Antonio Mi Sangre: From the Hard Season
    
18. Wind and the Sleeping Breath of Men
    
19. What's Here
    
20. Waikiki
    
21. Ongoing
    
22. Boy's Sleep
    
23. Glint
    
24. Early Riser
    
25. Fundamentalism
    
26. Ducks
    
27. New Year
    
28. My Friend's Divorce
    
29. Visit
    
30. The Palestinians Have Given Up Parties
    
31. Half-and-Half
    
32. Butter Box
    
33. Smoke
    
34. Alone
    
35. Alphabet
    
36. Feather
    
37. Hidden
    
38. Waiting to Cross
    
39. Estate Sale
    
40. Lost
    
41. Puff
    
42. Snow
    
43. Steps
    
44. Books We Haven't Touched in Years
    
45. The Rider
    
46. Solve Their Problems
    
47. Messenger
    
48. Living at the Airport
    
49. String
    
50. Fuel
    
51. Coming Soon
    
52. Pancakes with Santa
    
53. Alaska
    
54. So There
    
55. Across the Bay
    
56. My Uncle's Favorite Coffee Shop
    
57. Enthusiasm in Two Parts
    
58. Our Son Swears He Has 102 Gallons of Water in His Body
    
59. Morning Glory
    
60. Boy and Egg
    
61. The Time
    
62. Last Song for the Mend-it Shop
    
63. How Far Is It to the Land We Left?
    
64. Our Principal
    
65. Point of Rocks, Texas
    
66. Pause
    
67. Luggage
    
68. The Turtle Shrine Near Chittagong
    
69. Keep Driving
    
70. The Difficult Life of a Yokohama Leaf
    
71. Listening to Poetry in a Language I Do Not Understand
    
72. From This Distance
    
73. Sad Mail
    
74. Public Opinion
    
75. Open House
    
76. Quiet of the Mind
    
77. Return
    
78. Vocabulary of Dearness
    
79. Pollen
    
80. The Last Day of August
    
81. I Still Have Everything You Gave Me
    

• Acknowledgments
  
• About the Author
  

This plane has landed thanks to God and his mercy.

That's what they say in Jordan when the plane sets down.

What do they say in our country? Don't stand up till we tell you.

Stay in your seats. Things may have shifted.

This river has not disappeared thanks to that one big storm

when the water was almost finished.

We used to say thanks to the springs

but the springs dried up so we changed it.

This rumor tells no truth thanks to people.

This river walk used to be better when no one came.

What about the grapes? Thanks to the grapes

we have more than one story to tell.

Thanks to a soft place in the middle of the evening.

Thanks to three secret hours before dawn.

These deer are seldom seen because of their shyness.

If you see one you count yourselves among the lucky on the earth.

Your eyes get quieter.

These deer have nothing to say to us.

Thanks to the fan, we are still breathing.

Thanks to the small toad that lives in cool mud at the base of the zinnias.

Under the leaves, they're long and curling.

I pull a perfect question mark and two lean twins,

feeling the magnetic snap of stem, the ripened weight.

At the end of a day, the earth smells thirsty.

He left his brown hat, his shovel, and his pen.

I don't know how deep bean roots go.

We could experiment.

He left the sky over Oregon and the fluent trees.

He gave us our lives that were hiding under our feet,

saying, You know what to do.

So we'll take these beans

back into the house and steam them.

We'll eat them one by one with our fingers,

the clean click and freshness.

We'll thank him forever for our breath,

and the brevity of bean.

Once on a plane

a woman asked me to hold her baby

and disappeared.

I figured it was safe,

our being on a plane and all.

How far could she go?

She returned one hour later,

having changed her clothes

and washed her hair.

I didn't recognize her.

By this time the baby

and I had examined

each other's necks.

We had cried a little.

I had a silver bracelet

and a watch.

Gold studs glittered

in the baby's ears.

She wore a tiny white dress

leafed with layers

like a wedding cake.

I did not want

to give her back.

The baby's curls coiled tightly

against her scalp,

another alphabet.

I read
new new new
.

My mother gets tired
.

I'll chew your hand
.

The baby left my skirt crumpled,

my lap aching.

Now I'm her secret guardian,

the little nub of dream

that rises slightly

but won't come clear.

As she grows,

as she feels ill at ease,

I'll bob my knee.

What will she forget?

Whom will she marry?

He'd better check with me.

I'll say once she flew

dressed like a cake

between two doilies of cloud.

She could slip the card into a pocket,

pull it out.

Already she knew the small finger

was funnier than the whole arm.