John Dennison
Ecce
for Marco
I
Some kind of good meal,
I recall, our insult to injury there,
in the absolute city, Calcutta: callus
of endless pavement, my unrequited.
After, we trot along, un-
backpacked; and in the midst, the river,
its sure progress: come cross, come die.
II
He lies in our path, matted instance
of a general sliding rule, and the opened
body is eloquent: the clavicles,
their drained cups mouth the Psalmist’s
drouth: I am a worm, and not human;
scorned by others, and despised by the people.
All who see me mock at me; they make
their mouths at me, they shake their heads.
Ecce the pelvis, mounding under.
Ecce. O my goodness; my god.
III
O we pass by, yes, and there is an
end of it, wayward in the way we mouth
ruefulness, say, or appropriate concern,
so that, having passed, we labour with
the air, with balance—any progress this way
is hard-fought, self-won, wrath
as a mounding under: incurvatus in se.
And isn’t this where we find ourselves,
some few steps past and the impulse to stray,
not turn to the body who addresses
us with wasted abnegation?
Here, beloved (o come alongside us!)
in two minds, perhaps, now turn.
IV
He is, I guess, my age; wasted
and guttingly light; this much I carry
still: the sit bones set in distressed
relief under his shorts, the bleary
taxi driver and his concern
over upholstery as he ferries
us to Kalighat. What do we earn
by such? The doorman’s bald rebuke
at the door—‘you need to phone
to let us know you’re coming’; the lock
tumbles, and in we go, arms full
of life at the end of the tether, and back
out to the car, raging and pitiful.
V
Ecco fatto. And nothing earned.
Things are, in fact, otherwise,
so that brought close to the agony
of the final taxi ride, we find
those small tally sticks amount
to so much kindling. We warm ourselves
and talk quietly, breakfasting on the beach
at the crossing, and dare not ask who it is
tends the fire, who will lift us, arm
under shoulder, under hip—nirmal hriday.
