Three Mile Island

To mark tomorrow's anniversary of the Three Mile Island near-meltdown, I'm posting a poem I wrote about my own quirky and, admittedly odd, TMI experience. (I thought it was exciting -- what did I know? I was a little kid.)

I imagined radiation:
chartreuse, gleaming
dense, dust-sized particles,
thick in the air;
Humming and buzzing;
darting about.
Swimming around us like flu germs,
the color of highlighters

I imagined the earth’s oxygen:
heavy, viscous,
like smoke that pours thickly out of
mammoth-boxy factories
in Pittsburgh:
Dark, and graceful as
molasses on pancakes, or
octopus ink

I imagined the smell:
that syrupy dampness
that Ophelia tasted in the marshes:
the dark, grainy swamp
in her lungs:
Filling her like sleep;
changing the color
of her eyes.

I imagined it entering the bellies
of catfish and carp
and goldfish that darted about
in glistening ponds.

How cows would absorb it:
Slurping it noisily
as they snorted in air
that was thick and wet
with beaming, juicy
radio-wave particles
that mingled with alfalfa and clover
to make strangely sweet milk
that was science-fiction blue

I imagined drinking this milk in the dark:
gulping it slowly,
gulping it down
til I had a pale, thin
corridor of fluorescent lights
snapping on silently
from my throat to my stomach --
a dazzling, lengthening threadline
of light that wrapped itself in my belly –
Light wrapped around light --
til I had a vibrant, radiant ball
there, in the center of me.
Just like ET.

I remember radiation
in those quirky days before,
when fission was our pal.
When we thought driving to
my grandmother’s house --
13.5 miles away --
might save us from the meltdown.
when the N.R.C. could easily have meant
Not Really Cancerous.

And as I laid there awake,
Small in my bed,
Listening for fire alarms --
Eyelids fluttering --

I thought about fleeing to that neon-lit town --
where the air smelled like chocolate
where summer raged like a carnival
where everybody brought their favorite toy
where there were no Dads
where there was no school
where the kids knew as much
about the future as grownups
where time would slow down --

and there, with my overnight
bag tucked under my bed --
jammed to near-bursting with
all I would need for the Apocalypse
(some candy bars, some underwear
some Milk Bones for the dog),

I laid there awake,
strained to hear sirens
in the faraway night --
In the silent, dense coolness,
after the rain --
And I knew
this was the best week of my life.

Paradoxical Sleep

Paradoxical Sleep
We say the eye rests
On an object it loves.
It is a pretty
idea --the long, languid

gaze is blissfully
measured, like late Sunday
mornings, slept in – but
the eye is not still. In

reverence of
beautiful things, it dances
and widens its pupil
to welcome them in. It is

generous, that way.

It is also alert:
quizzical, challenging,
discerning, assessing.
Gathering and measuring

dimension and hue;
reversing the form, then
expertly righting it;
relishing all sides, and

stowing them away.
Later, enchanted
by mesmeric sleep,
the eye skims across the

shape and light of memory,

and —deftly,
undaunted—
fast-forward filters through
a thousand flashing

slideshows, searching for
that which it loves,
which it knows.
Fluttering wildly, like

rapturous birds.

Einstein was wrong / Hello, Savings and Loan! - 2 poems on a theme

Einstein was wrong

Say two photons of meet in some
Interdimensional, space/time
continuum cocktail lounge.
They banter, clink glasses,
Swap email addresses.
They scribble on sambuca-
stained napkins.
They laugh with no irony.
They don’t miss a beat.
It’s effortless, somehow.

Eventually, of course,
they must go.

With impossible speed—
faster than judgment, faster than thought,
faster than time, they burst
out and spin, photo-negative:
One, counter-clockwise,
The other, like a clock.


Photon A travels north, where
Ice speckles the sea.
Photon B travels south, where
clouds pattern the skies
with bright, watery waves.
They are light years apart, now.

No physical connection passes between them –
no fiberous strings,
no itinerant light beams,
no magical bean-trails,
no postcards, no footprints,
no fun-loving sound waves cruising for
a jazzy old time.

No. They are separate, now.
But they are not alone.

Einstein looks up from his meticulous doodles,
twisting a tooth-bitten pencil in his riotous hair,
Says the word “spooky” aloud, then writes:
“You can not predict the movement of one,
based on the other.”
But Einstein was wrong.

Recalling the other,
With a minion of twinkling
faraway stars now between them –
all across boundaries of space
and of time – they coordinate,
Spinning together. Somehow,they know.


Hello, Savings and Loan!
What if this blade of grass,
with its tender green curve and
sway -- fresh-scented, fleshy,
vibrating with dew --

What if, in a blip,
It would – snap! – disappear?
And your sense of it, too,
vaporized: that memory

gone, splintering the
cycle of shared space and
time, and the world as you’ve
known it, now one ounce

askewed – Would you disappear, too?

Do you, as a part of
the natural world, intersect
with the world and all
that is in it? Yes? Well,
where does this influence end?

At our best, we propel ourselves
like a young Jimmy Stewart –
careening down streets,
wakeful, ebullient,

smattered with soupcons
of snow, flushed with warm
knowledge of this wonderful
life, shouting: “Hello,

movie house! Hello tree!
Hello, Savings and Loan!”

Tasting and touching
immeasurable flosses
that flicker
on delicate winds,

connecting the whole
of the astonishing
world: Connecting it
all to him.

Welcome message

Welcome, and thank you for visiting my site.

Scroll down to read the poems.

Paradoxical sleep

We say that the eye rests
on an object it loves. It is
a pretty idea --
the long, languid gaze

is blissfully measured, like
late Sunday mornings slept in -- but
the eye is not still. In
reverence of

beautiful things, its
pupil will widen to
welcome them in --

It is generous, that way.

The eye is alert:
Quizzical, challenging,
discerning, assessing;
gathering and bending
dimension and hue

into color and light --
reversing the form, then
expertly righting it.
Relishing all sides; and

stowing them away.

And later, enchanted by
mesmeric sleep, the eye
quick-dances: skims across
the shape and light

of memory;
fast-forward filters through
a thousand flashing
slideshows;

Searching fo tthat
which it loves, which it knows.
Fluttering rapidly
like rapturous

birds.

The night the ceiling descended

Who resists Little India?
Young, earnest busboys
lining up Sixth Street,
shouting out -- conjuring
bright, gleaming platters
of faintly spiced bread --

We stood there, enchanted.
Drunken on glittering
skylines, strange noises,
midnight-blue saris,
The life we might lead.

Do you remember
that night? (The interminable
puppet show; the drag cabaret;
The guy on the Vespa, screaming,
“Television! Television!”
Your hair, in the rain?)

That night when the ceiling
descended -- festooned with crinkling
stars, silver elephants,
Valentine hearts --
When our waiter appeared, singing
“Janam din ki badhai.”
“Happy birthday to you.”

Reykjavik, 1995

Speechless sleep that lasts for weeks and
weeks. And if we dream we dream of
sheep that softly bray in shelter,
shining sunlight, and in shadow;
kites of white set against the night
that’s black-blinded, infinitely
deep.

And dreaming, we must learn to keep
in transit, learn to know unknown
is still unknown -- this mystic land
could swallow us! We slowly sift
through ice-tipped snow and
stamp our feet – Shh! Silently, slow,
asleep.

In spring, the lava fields crunch cool
beneath our feet familiarly,
A weirdly orange morning glow:
Moonscape escape, my home. You are
with me, and we are both
alone.

The first month you loved me

In that first month you loved me
You were the floor and ceiling
and stairs and tall doors (always
opening), love.

Shrouding us two in your dim,
augerbine coat,
you said you would grow to a
wide-grinning

man who teeters on sidewalks,
and dotes on his ancient wife.

Dreaming of fireflies,
brilliant storm oceans,
the scent of sweet grasses, the
luminant skies

that were ours, I loved you --
A thirty-day sandstorm,
closer than breath. I learned,
then, about thirst.

Large Rain Beginning & The Meteorologist

Large rain, beginning

Large rain beginning:
Faraway, the drum!
Beating-breathing. Rain
unfolding.
Searching for its

Sound, learning its
voice –

darkly scented. Full,
and breathless -- yielding
as a lullaby –


the sky,
learning to
glow, opening
wide!

*********************

The meteorologist

The birds,
Shrieking madly,
Patterned the long and
Restless sky,
Their dark and sinewed bodies --
clustered, zodiacal --
irradiated in strange
Twilight.

They were gathering again.

Thrashing, fitful, charged
with some dielectric Bengal
heat -- their luminescent
wings fluttering wildly --
they together pieced
a memory:
Some deep and ancient
knowing they didn’t need to
understand.

They were gathering. Again.

Deafening,
with heavy wings (erratic!),
they were closer, now, together,
Casting sudden shade.

“It’s the barometric pressure,”
he said,
a pale reflection in the pane.

Bobby in Paris

Boy tugs at his mother --
Rough, on her sleeve.
He’s spied a shining something
That could be Coke tab
Or a jewel.

Argumentative and
Stuffed-to-fill
with griddle-flattened patties,
Special sauce, sesame --
Aromatic cheese --
He hopes, like all boys, everywhere:
Something ancient.
Something new.
Something better.

He bends, to pick it up.

Outside, still, the women
sway their round hips
knowingly; tie pretty scarves
a thousand mysterious
ways: The City of Lights.

Red Lantern I

Red Lantern I

Let only earth,
the simple sky

(opening
brightly),

Reveal me.

Red lanterns sway
in the dark,

Quick-flashing,
promising,

Always.

They shine under
night.

Fortune Cookie Factory (The End of the Meal)

Sixty-seven women in
Four straight lines,
Busily bobbing
babooshkas, each day

At the fortune-cookie factory --
Fold tiny epiphanies
into sweet, still-warm
dough:

Beware of quick changes.
You have true friends.
Be cautious of strangers.
Your love is untrue.

Which batch reaches me,
now?
I linger, all edges,
With bright, catching
breath.

Bite into a lemon

Bite into a lemon.
(carefully peel
vivid happy
phrenological-storied
skin –
forefingers, thumbs.)

Bite into it whole,
(vertigo – your
eyes squeezed tight; a
blazing-white and blistering,
your
throat open wide.)

Let sunlit juices slowly
run, exhibitionistic,
down your chin.

Your insomniatic tongue
is fervent now, emboldened.
Your lips form a foreign,
innocent kiss.

You will gulp the honeyed air, then,
Blinking, chaste, into the sun,
Everything a fiction:
sweeter than before.

Writers and spies

Alas, we’ve never met.
I’m sure you’re beautiful.
Charming.
You’d enjoy veloute du cresson,
fresh flowers at breakfast;
a dry, woodsy wine.

And he laughed.

Writers and spies, he said,
entertain, and rely on
the ones they deceive.

He’d grown up knowing
that all grownups lie,
which they do.
He’d heard of dark alleys,
Double-entendres,
and backrooms.
He loved
to puzzle it out.

Half-way across town,
A young man ties a key
to a bright-blue balloon.
He watches it drift --
Higher, higher –-
Blue into blue.
He imagines the place
It might land.