The Reagan Era
It was superb, the song. It was superb.
Half-awake, coming to half-terms
with the tiny room cut in half
by the presence of the possessions
of my roommate gone for the weekend,
the rain done, the year, 1982,
beginning to fall, I brimmed over
with how I didn’t know to what extent
the air shaft behind my head and outside
our one window was physical.
I was with the small but tiny
building on 112th and Broadway,
inside it, just as without question,
or with certainty, I was inside
my freshman year of college in
New York City, by my side, alone
on a Sunday morning after a late night
with friends, an overripe Saturday
involving fermented laughter and
varying liquids involving more
than the need to end thirst. And
I didn’t know if the building’s missing
wide spine consisted of air or
of a woman’s throat, the two ends
of an Adam’s apple suspended
in an arc over a smooth surface.
Privileged and hungry for unseen,
universal riches swinging low
over wages and charity
and a chariot (wrong song), was I
half-dreaming? To what extent?
Was I reverting back to dreaming
of waking to a world with its inside
scooped out so that half of its windows,
the lucky ones nestled away
from the streets, could breathe, though closed?
The one behind my head, I realized
or fantasized, was open all the way,
given the late September heat,
and a dead woman (I called her
“Judy,” which was her exact name)
with a “Garland” of flowery, leafy,
precise softness at the top of her lungs,
was singing, going on and “Over”
about “the Rainbow” like a drunken child
wreathed with brain stems and freed cells.
It was superb. I was awake now,
to the music and the prank, no doubt
someone a few floors down half-dangling
a speaker, like an air-conditioner,
out his window, laughing and blasting
sleepers from their slumbers
at such an ungodly hour, the music
and not the prank reverberating
and exploding like an immense,
contained throat. It was superb,
with just Judy hovering above
the source in a disembodied building,
an immense, upside-down glass of rain
with no ceiling or floor, her lit throat
whispering like a roar around my ears
and inner lids, having broken through the airy
glass behind my head, her lit throat arriving
too early to be wrong, given
the sun’s multibright wish to never awaken
without chord changes and milked and nursed
syllables, the perfect world an upside-
down smile nuzzling the brutal streets,
tenderly belting out flesh and money,
deprivation, sleep, and the dream
that years later, there would be
conscious and conscionable peace
at last, if not where I would be,
then somewhere.
2008
*
Since 1987, Douglas Nordfors has been publishing poems in journals such as The Iowa Review, Quarterly West, and Poet Lore, and recent work has appeared in Burnside Review, Agave, OccuPoetry, Tipton Poetry Journal, and others. He has published two books of poetry, Auras (2008), and The Fate Motif (2013).
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