Tropics
N
0°-23.5°N
O for
a
beaker
full
of
the
warm
South.
John
Keats
Just
barely,
I
tell
my
brother.
He
spends
the
winter
in a
white
stucco
house
by a
mangrove
swamp
where
it
hardly
ever
rains.
My
cracker
house
in a
sea
oaks
grove
five
miles
up
the
road,
five
degrees
cooler.
Rains
here
every
afternoon.
°
Looked
like
a
black
garden
hose
snaking.
As I
walked
to
the
salt
water
pool
in
the
morning
through
the
steamy
jungle
alone
in my
girlhood.
Sliding
as if
some
thicketed
gardener
pulled
a
hose
behind
him
to
water
the
dark.
Tropical
smell
of
sweetness
and
decay.
°
When
he
told
me he
was
going
to
make
me
feel
good.
When
he
told
me to
lie
down.
When
he
said
to
unbutton
my
blouse,
slowly.
He
said
take
it
off.
When
he
said
to
slip
the
bra
strap
off
my
shoulder.
He
said
to
slide
my
hand
to my
breast,
let
my
hand
push
the
bra
down
below,
touch
my
nipple.
Slip
your
bra
strap
off,
touch
the
other
nipple,
put
the
phone
down,
touch
them
both
at
once.
Hello!
Hello!
When
he
said
could
I
hear
him.
He
said
to
pinch
one,
then
the
other.
He
said
to
brush
them
both
with
my
fingers
at
the
same
time.
Move
your
hands
over
your
stomach,
press
down.
He
said
to
play
with
my
nipple
with
one
hand,
slide
the
other
hand
up
one
thigh,
lightly
over
the
pubic
hair,
down
the
other
thigh.
When
he
said
to
raise
my
knees.
When
he
said
to
put
one
finger
in.
Now
two,
three,
your
fist,
the
phone
receiver.
°
I was
sitting
on
her
belly.
I
didn’t
want
to
laugh
but
she
looked
so
pretty,
sun
shining,
Daddy
home
from
the
war,
war
over.
She
must
have
said
something
so
funny.
Something
about
my
stupid
brothers.
Her
belly
began
to
bounce
up
and
down,
I had
to
even
though
I
didn’t
want
to
laugh.
I
couldn’t
even
though
I
wanted
to
stay
mad.
He
wrote
the
General.
In
fact
I
have
been
here
three
months,
and
in
these
three
months
I
have
had
no
job
that
would
occupy
one
full
day’s
work.
I
suppose
I
will
have
to
wait
my
turn
after
redeployment,
until
others
of
longer
service
here
are
returned.
Meantime,
perhaps
you
will
give
me
the
encouragement
of
your
counsel,
and
even—somehow,
sometime—help
me to
get
home.
He
tells
him
how
much
he
misses
his
family.
Names
names,
my
one
brother,
my
other
brother,
me.
°
So
vast
is
the
world,
who
can
know,
though
you
go to
the
ends
of
the
earth,
you
cannot.
Though
you
enter
the
walled
city
of
your
desire,
you
will
not.
The
desert
will
not
yield
you
fruit
nor
the
pole
the
rock
of
your
stability.
Fire
shall
harden
in
your
hands
and
the
moist
earth
evaporate
in
all
the
regions
of
your
emptiness,
until.
°
We
always
knew
where
we
were.
In
the
middle,
in
the
(humid)
muddle,
in
the
more
or
less.
Sun
up
through
the
east
door
facing
the
ocean,
last
rays
through
the
lakeside
porch’s
screen.
Hallway
(halfway)
where
morning
and
evening
met.
Light
pouring
in,
pouring
out,
side
to
side
through
my
father’s
mariachi
martini
cocktail
shaker.
Swizzle
stick,
newel
post,
axis
of
all
that
mattered.
°
The
paper’s
not
white,
what
it
says
doesn’t
have
to be
spotless.
This
truth
holds
also
for
tablecloths.
°
My
father
chased
fire
engines
till
he
chased
one
home.
This
is
what
is
known
as
cause
and
effect.
Guilt
is
everywhere.
°
In
from
the
ocean
late
afternoon,
hot
skin,
cool
tiles,
dark
interiors.
Water
ran
from
the
large-mouthed
faucets,
tub
so
big
in
the
big
shingle
house
by
the
saltwater-smelling
sea.
We
floated.
Sand
clung
to
the
skin,
chips
of
mica,
sand
in
the
hair,
in
the
nose,
in
the
armpits,
belly
button,
folds
of
the
penis,
vagina,
sand
in
the
ears,
under
nails,
in
eyelashes.
Spray-crusted,
sea-dunked,
sun-crisp,
happy
as
celery.
°
Mom,
says
my
daughter,
I
want
to go
to
the
beach.
But
don’t
you
have
an
exam
tomorrow?
Don’t
you
think
you
should
study?
Won’t
you
feel
guilty?
Yes,
but I
can
handle
it.
°
We
played
Doctor,
like
everybody
else.
We
took
turns.
But
our
favorite
was
the
sheik
because
one
of us
had
to
win
to be
chosen
to
spend
the
Arabian
night
with
the
other.
Me
and
my
best
friend
on
top
of
each
other.
Stroking
each
other’s
new
breasts
to
the
swell
and
the
crest
and
the
crash
of
the
mentoring
waves.
Mapping
the
coastlines.
Filling
in
the
blanks.
°
In
order
to
have
a
meaningful
life
or
society,
there
must
be:
First,
a
satisfactory
metaphysics,
a map
of
the
way
things
are
that
is
positive.
Second,
a
telos,
an
end
toward
which
life
is
moving,
for
which
it
exists.
Third,
people
must
see
themselves
as
having
value,
a
positive,
even
a
central
role
in
unfolding
history
and
the
telos.
Fourth,
based
on
metaphysics
and
telos
and
belief,
people
must
be
able
to
discover
moral
standards
that
further
the
good
purposes
and
ends
of
society.
Fifth,
there
must
be a
sense
of
overall
justice,
completeness,
closure,
symmetry.
Everything
must
fit
coherently
together. |
°
Try
it,
two
for
two
dollars,
nothing
ventured.
First
ball
goes
in,
piece
o’
cake,
miss
the
second.
Rim
shot.
He
demonstrates.
Here,
try
again.
My
ball
stays
in,
on
top
of
his.
He
takes
them
both
out.
Tell
you
what.
He’ll
give
me
the
flamingo
free
if I
can
get
just
one
ball
in,
that’s
it.
But
the
price
goes
up to
five
bucks.
One
goes
in.
Rim
shot,
he
says,
shaking
his
head,
take
it
over.
You
know
how I
let
you
take
the
rim
shot
over
when
it
bounced
back
out,
well,
I’m
going
to
let
you
take
this
one
over
too.
Suddenly,
oh,
he
reminded
me of
my
brothers.
That
I
wasn’t
going
to
win
that
stupid
flamingo.
°
On
the
other
hand.
Traffic
jam
poems,
the
spirit
moves
nevertheless
cosmic
poems,
smog
poems,
muscle
poems,
sprocket
poems,
sprawl
poems,
ocean
desert
mountain
coastline
helicopter
poems.
Palm
tree
poems,
80°(F)
and
rising
poems,
peeling
poems,
beyond
the
ocean
lies
the
Orient
poems,
westward
ho
poems,
northwest
passage
poems,
standing
at
the
ends
of
the
earth
wonder
poems.
Brave
poems,
loud
poems,
black
tights
and
leotards,
ballet
slipper
poems,
beginning
over
again
at my
age
footloose
poems,
barefoot
poems,
long
beach
poems,
seagull
with
sun
on
its
white
wings
backlit
poems,
visiting
my
grown-up
daughter
pacific
poems,
freedom
poems,
love
poems,
songs
I’ve
wanted
to
sing
my
whole
life.
°
Certain
maps
present
California
as an
island.
°
They
ate
the
olives.
They
wore
print
dresses
with
square
necks,
short-capped
sleeves,
pearl
chokers,
red
lipstick,
red
nail
polish,
hair
pulled
back
in a
—it
was
called
a
snood.
They
leaned
across,
the
army
wives,
intimate
in
conversation.
Their
fathers
and
husbands
drank
martinis,
an
acquired
taste.
They
acquired
it.
Red-tipped
cigarettes
extended,
flattering
their
lovely
hands,
their
lifted
chins.
The
home
front
was
so
damn
much
fun.
°
I can
still
smell
the
starched,
pink
polished
cotton.
The
heady,
sweet
swoon
of
orange
blossoms.
We
had
our
picture
taken.
Mary
janes
and
ankle
socks.
Pigtails
with
fat
pink
ribbons.
Nana
waited
lunch.
We
sat
on
the
west
porch
looking
at
the
lake.
The
boys
got
to go
outside
to
play
pirates.
The
women
smoothed
their
minute-hand
watches.
They
ticked
and
ticked.
By
the
time
he
arrived,
she
was
blaming
the
war
on
him.
Welcome
home,
welcome
home.
Daddy,
Angel,
Daddy!
°
In
some
places
only
six
miles
down,
molten
hot
stuff,
magma.
°
Also
if
they’re
tied
to
their
mothers
they
can’t
object
if
you’re
tied
to
yours.
We
keep
the
same
distance.
°
Nana
took
me to
the
unused
room.
She
showed
me
the
cupboards,
broken
shells
and
halves
of
buttons,
shredded
costumes,
crumpled
shoes,
fishing
and
butterfly
nets,
golden
books.
The
mildewy
smell
of
not
having
been
opened
since.
Everything
dark
and
sweet
with
unknowing.
She
left
me
but
it
was
not
alone.
The
world
inside
the
world,
the
secret
entrance.
°
It’s
enough
just
to
love
a
place.
You
don’t
necessarily
have
to
know
why.
°
Oh,
sunshine
hot
as a
man’s
big
hands
(I
thought).
Oh,
air
slow
with
orange
blossoms
and
sweat!
°
Then
I was
sitting
on
her
belly
in
the
tropical
sunshine
trying
not
to
laugh
and
laughing.
The
crabgrass
bounced.
Whatever
she
was
saying
was
showing
me
how.
She
had
her
hands
on my
waist
so I
wouldn’t
fall
off.
He
raised
the
camera.
He
was
calling
my
name.
Notes
O
for a
beaker...Letters.
In
order
to
have
a
meaningful...I
am
indebted
to
philosopher
Louis
Pojman
for
these
ideas.
Laurel
Blossom’s
most
recent
book
of
poetry
is
Vanishing
Point:
New
and
Selected
Poems
(Ridgeway
Press,
2004).
Earlier
books
include
The
Papers
Said,
What’s
Wrong,
and
Any
Minute.
Her
work
has
appeared
in a
number
of
anthologies,
and
in
national
journals
including
Poetry,
The
American
Poetry
Review,
and
The
Paris
Review,
among
others.
She
has
recently
completed
a
book-length
poem,
Degrees
of
Latitude,
exploring
the
geography
of a
woman’s
life.
She
serves
on
the
editorial
board
of
Heliotrope:
a
journal
of
poetry.
Blossom
has
received
fellowships
from
the
National
Endowment
for
the
Arts,
the
New
York
Foundation
for
the
Arts,
the
Ohio
Arts
Council,
and
Harris
Manchester
College,
Oxford
University,
where
she
serves
on
the
Board
of
Regents.
She
co-founded
the
esteemed
writing
residency
and
workshop
program
The
Writers
Community,
and
now
serves
as
chair
of
the
Writers
Community
Committee
of
the
YMCA
National
Writer’s
Voice.
She
recently
moved
to
rural
South
Carolina.
I was
at
the
Atlantic
Center
for
the
Arts
in
1989
when
these
poems
were
born;
as a
result
of my
fellowship
at
ACA,
I
began
a
daily
journal,
which
I
kept
for
two
years
thereafter.
That
was
the
beginning
of
the
long
and
tortuous
evolution
in
form
and
content
of a
book
called
Degrees
of
Latitude,
of
which
these
three
poems
form
sections.
Then
one
day,
a few
years
later,
I
turned
50. I
gave
myself
an
adventure,
to
prove
I
wasn’t
going
to
die:
I
went
to
the
North
Pole!
Standing
on
the
vast
ice
stretching
as
far
as
the
eye
could
see,
I
realized
to my
surprise
that
I had
come
to
the
top
of
the
world
not
to
defy
death,
but
to
find
my
life;
not
just
to
get
to
the
ends
of
the
earth,
but
to
find
my
home.
I was
drawing
a map
of
myself,
my
identity.
I
wanted
to
know
where
I
ended
and
the
world
began.
But
more
than
that.
I
began
to
see
myself
as
representative,
as a
kind
of
Everywoman,
and
my
psyche
as
co-terminus
with
earth.
Not
that
my
circumstances
(or
Circumference,
to
invoke
Emily
Dickinson)
are
like
another’s,
necessarily,
but
that
my
longings,
my
losses,
my
language
and
its
redemptions
are.
So
the
map
became
a
metaphor
for
exploration
and
the
journey
became
an
epic.
A
woman’s
epic,
in
which
travel
is as
much
emotional
as
physical,
the
past
is
everpresent,
and
the
quest
is
for a
spiritual
self
at
home
in
the
world
as it
is.
The
only
direction
to go
from
the
North
Pole
is
south;
at
the
South
Pole
the
only
way
is
north
again.
The
world
and
all
that’s
in it
goes
around.
As
the
Queen
(Mary
of
Scots)
and
then
the
poet
(T.S.
of
Eliot)
said,
In my
end
is my
beginning.
Or,
to
quote
myself
at
the
end
of
Degrees
of
Latitude,
“We
have
reached,
at
last,
the
starting
point.”
Everyplace
is
the
starting
point.
For
some
time
in
the
process
of
working
on
Degrees
of
Latitude,
I
wanted
the
reader
to be
able
to
read
the
sections,
if
not
the
individual
lines
themselves,
in
any
order,
at
will.
In
the
end,
that
idea
proved
too
chaotic;
but
I’ve
tried
to
preserve
a
certain
amount
of
randomness
to
the
text,
a
kind
of
associational
progression
that
mimics
how
the
restless
mind
of
this
one
representative
woman
works.
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