those eighteen glammering gold chains around the throat of pity,

hulk through Chicago in a hedgerow afro,

What were we, the skinny B-boys, to learn from you?

to crush a fool’s face like newsprint

(by white men)

ometimes drugged & duffled

steam engine’s imagination

A man made of scrap muscle & the steam

she would open her eyes and think of the place that was hers for an hour-where she was nothing, pure nothing, in the middle of the day….

And just what was mother doing out back with the field mice? Why, building a palace.

when she closed her eyes she’d see only her own vivid blood.

So she lugged a chair behind the garage to sit out the children’s naps.

but she saw diapers steaming on the line, a doll slumped behind the door.

She wanted a little room for thinking:

The old Lie: Dulce et decorum est Pro patria mori.

My friend, you would not tell with such high zest To children ardent for some desperate glory,

If you could hear, at every jolt, the blood Come gargling from the froth-corrupted lungs, Obscene as cancer, bitter as the cud

His hanging face, like a devil’s sick of sin;

In all my dreams before my helpless sight, He plunges at me, guttering, choking, drowning.

As under a green sea, I saw him drowning.

And flound’ring like a man in fire or lime.

Gas! GAS! Quick, boys!

Men marched asleep

Bent double, like old beggars under sacks, Knock-kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge,

This is persimmons, Father.

Two persimmons, so full they want to drop from the cloth.

I ask how his eyes are, a stupid question. All gone, he answers.

my father

My mother said every persimmon has a sun inside, something golden, glowing, warm as my face.

. Knowing it wasn’t ripe or sweet, I

My mother made birds out of yarn.

Wrens are soft as yarn.

Fight was what I did when I was frightened, Fright was what I felt when I was fighting.

she is beautiful as the moon.

Peel the skin tenderly, not to tear the meat. Chew the skin, suck it, and swallow. Now, eat the meat of the fruit, so sweet, all of it, to the heart.

Ripe ones are soft and brown-spotted. Sniff the bottoms. The sweet one will be fragrant

persimmons. This is precision.

slapped the back of my hea

he slip of paper with Mr. Kapasi’saddress on it fluttered away in the wind. No one but Mr. Kapasi noticed.He watched as it rose, carried higher and higher by the breeze, into thetrees where th~ monkeys now sat, solemnly observing the scene below.Mr. Kapasi observed it too, knowing that this was the picture of the Dasfamily he would preserve forever in his mind

"Poor Bobby," Mrs. Das said. "Come here a second. Let Mommy fixyour hair.

Mr. Kapasi took his branch and shooed them away, hissing at the onesthat remained, stomping his feet to scare them. The animals retreatedslowly, with a measured gait, obedient but unintimidated. Mr. Kapasigathered Bobby in his arm

"Mr. Kapasi, don t you have anything to say? I thought that was yourjob.""My job is to give tours, Mrs. Das.""Not that. Your other job. As an interpreter."

Not quite." It disturbed Mr. Kapasi to learn that she thought of himas a parent. The feeling he had had toward her, that had made him checkhis reflection in the rearview mirror as they drove, evaporated a littl

We met when we were very. young," she said. She reached into herstraw bag in search of something, then pulled ont a packet of puffed rice."Want some?’’~

"He’s not his.""I beg your pardon?""Raj’s. He’s not Raj’s son.

evening newspaper and a cup of tea that his wife would serve him insilence.

Accord-ing to his schedule, allowing room for delays, he would hear from Mrs.Das in approximately six weeks’ tim

Mrs. Das had taken an interest in him

The paper curled as Mr. Kapasi wrote his address in clear, careful let-ters. She would write to him, asking about his days interpreting at thedoctor’s office, and he would respond eloquently, choosing only the mostentertaining an.~.~ecd~_o.~te~s, ones that would make her laugh out loud as sheread them in her house in New Jersey

For this reason it flattered Mr. Kapasi that Mrs. Das was so intriguedby his job. Unlike.t’ds wife, she had reminded him of its intellectual chablenges. She had algaused the word "romantic." She did not behave in aromantic ~vay toward her husband, and yet she had used the word todescribe him. He wondered if Mn and Mrs. Das were a bad match, justas he and his wife were. Perhaps theT~5 too, had little in common apartfrom three children and a decade of their lives. The signs he recognizedfrom his own marriage were there- the bickering, the indifference, theprotracted silences. Her sudden interest in him, an interest she did notexpress in either her husband or her children, was mildly intoxicating.When Mr. Kapasi thought once again about how she had said "roman-tic," the feeling of intoxication grew

The ,job was a sign of his failings

"But so romantic," Mrs. Das said dreamily, breaking her extendedsilenc

Mr. and Mrs. Das behaved like an older brother and sister, notparents. It seemed that they were in charge of the children only for theday; it was hard to believe they were regularly responsible for anythingother than themselves

Leave me alone," Mrs. Das said, blowing on her nail and turning herbody slightly. "You’re making me mess up.

, but Mrs.Das said nothing to stop her. She sat a bit slonched at one end of the

t this Mrs. Das gave an impatient sigh, as if she had been travelingher whole life without pause

Mr. Kapasi heard one of the shirttess men sing aphrase from a popular Hindi love song as Mrs, Das walked back to thecar, but she did not appear to understand the words of the song, for shedid not express irritation, or embarrassment, or react in any other wayto the man’s declarations

Mr. Kapasi found it strange that Mr. Das should refer to his wifeby her first name when speaking to the little girl

Mr. Kapasi

t the tea stall Mr. and Mrs. Das bickered about who should take Tina tothe toilet. Eventually Mrs. Das relented when Mr. Das pointed out thathe had given the girl her bath the night before. In the rearview mirrorMr. Kapasi watched as Mrs. Das emerged slowly from his bulky whit

. He hated her. Yes, he did. He hated her. Love,too, but it was a hard, hating kind of love

On the morning after Ted Lavender died, First LieutenantJimmy Cross crouched at the bottom of his foxhole and burnedMartha's letters. Then he burned the two photographs. There

which wasthe fear of blushing.

Lieutenant Jimmy Cross's capacity for grief

virgin

Lavender was now dead,

Henry Dobbins carried Black Flaginsecticide. Dave Jensen carried empty sandbags that could befilled at night for added protection. Lee Strunk carried tanning

Ted Lavender was shot in the head on his way back frompeeing. He lay with his mouth open. The teeth were broken.There was a swollen black bruise under his left eye.

Imagination was a killer.

virgin and not a virgin

hen a mission took them to the mountains, they carriedmosquito netting, machetes, canvas tarps, and extra bug juice.

he wondered who had beenwith her that afternoon.

and now Ted Lavender was dead because heloved her so much and could not stop thinking about her

virgin,

Lieutenant Cross wondered who had takenthe picture

he things they carried

Martha

was waiting for Sonny to do the things on the keys which would let Creole know that Sonny was in the water

I wanted to say more, but I couldn't. I wanted to talk about will power and how life could be- well, beautiful. I wanted to say that it was all within; but was it? or, rather, wasn't that exactly the trouble? And I wanted to promise that I would never fail him again. But it would all have sounded-empty words and lies.

Some guys, you can tell from the way they play, they on something all the time. And you can see that, well, it makes something real for them. But of course," he picked up his beer from the floor and sipped it and put the can down again, "they want to, too, you've got to see that. Even some of them that say they don't- some, not all."

we had a fight, a pretty awful fight, and I didn't see him for months. By and by I looked him up, where he was living, in a furnished room in the Village, and I tried to make it up. But there were lots of other people in the room and Sonny just lay on his bed, and he wouldn't come downstairs with me, and he treated these other people as though they were his family and I weren't. So I got mad and then he got mad, and then I told him that he might just as well be dead as live the way he was living. Then he stood up and he told me not to worry about him any more in life, that he was dead as far as I was concerned.

I want to play jazz,

got to hold on to your brother," she said, "and don't let him fall, no matter what it looks like is happening to him and no matter how evil you gets with him. You going to be evil with him many a time. But don't you forget what I told you, you hear?"

We live in a housing project. It hasn't been up long. A few days after it was up it seemed uninhabitably new, now, of course, it's already rundown. It looks like a parody of the good, clean, faceless life-God knows the people who live in it do their best to make it a parody. The beat-looking grass lying around isn't enough to make their lives green, the hedges will never hold out the streets, and they know it. The big windows fool no one, they aren't big enough to make space out of no space. They don't bother with the windows, they watch the TV screen instead. The playground is most popular with the children who don't play at jacks, or skip rope, or roller skate, or swing, and they can be found in it after dark. We moved in partly because it's not too far from where I teach, and partly for the kids; but it's really just like the houses in which Sonny and I grew up. The same things happen, they'll have the same things to remember. The moment Sonny and I started into the house I had the feeling that I was simply bringing him back into the danger he had almost died trying to escape.

musician

"You mean-they'll let him out. And then he'll just start working his way back in again. You mean he'll never kick the habit. Is that what you

"ain't nothing you can do

One boy was whistling a tune, at once very complicated and very simple, it seemed to be pouring out of him as though he were a bird, and it sounded very cool and moving through all that harsh, bright air, only just holding its own through all those other s

Isabel

Sonny

trapped in the darkness which roared outside