Diaries

I keep diaries in my head
At night I write on sealed pages
In dream codes--a sort
Of dot-dot-dash Morse himself
Couldn't read
Keeps them private

Old loves recur
taller than they were
dressed in dimestore suits and ties
I never saw them wear
And my father
Who never heard of Neruda

Gu Cheng or the Cultural Revolution
Rocks calmly on the porch
And speaks to me of bread and milk
I'm sick he says
And wants to say goodbye
As if he were not already dead

This is a book
My grandchildren will never read
From pages carelessly left open
The key is not in my hand
Not even in my pocket
Never will my children say

Mama tell us of Olden Times
And turn these pages that open upon
Old houses
Old rooms that suck me in
Like Alice through the glass
This world is mine alone

Where the voices and the windows
The old mingling of bodies
And the landscapes are buried
What's here
Is one raw nerve exposed
And aching to go

Where I never can
To grasp the fleeting things
That would disappear