Persephone and the Man of Letters

Of A. Of the abracadabra triangled
below the navel's amulet. Of the underworld
still with me as I drive all night to you
following a red Trans-am,
my beacon and talisman.
Before me the mysterious lands of corn and soy.
Behind me our Atlantic's salty winds.
O glorious Susquehanna and wild grasses!
Here in the pearl beads of your abacus. I am
first an old-fashioned long division,
then an algebra without numbers
only spheres and stars. You are all

Of B. The broadest letter. Two blooms
held with a bandit's knot. Wonder split
to the very beginning of your because.
Fireflies troll in slow-mo on a labial mute,
the bow-stringed scales of Spring's new moon.
Fireflies become a thousand eyes, packed
in the honey-filled magnavox--i.e., the sky.
Quiet now, I see 26 trees and 26 varieties
of warblers speaking to me. They have information
for me. As my body shoots straight through

C. The fastest letter. I'm trying to slow down.
To count slowly. One, Mississippi. Two,
Fra Lippo Lippi. Three, Krispy Kreme. Four, my
Grandma's cornbread recipe. Come a
little closer, and I'll tell you the one
ingredient I always leave out. And it starts with

D. Of door number 3. The delta
where I backstroke the distance between
the devil's trap and the deep blue.
Some call it a dance. Whatever the term
is for what we are doing, it feels
as if wind and matter had not been invented.
Listen! An owl or maybe a cuckoo resurrected.
Bird of knowledge. There's nothing
smart about this night.

Of E. Of Bee Vamp. Of humidity. Of day old coffee. And fries extra
crispy. Of eight ball. Of turning forty. Of each other. Of easy street.

Of F. What's spelled out after the fifth is taken.
At 4 a.m. the fist greased with a train whistle's resin.
Insects horned and drunk on berry liqueur. The stars
above shavings from de Sade's festive board.

Of G. Of the gimme cap. Of the grooves in vinyl where we sing of graves
and worms and epitaphs. The heaviest letter.

Of H. I am sorry, husband, it is Spring and I must leave you for a time
in hell.

Of I, J ,K, and L. All private.
A package of pomegranate seeds.

Man of letters.

Of the N in the new-dropped foal.

Of the O in armadillo. And the silver buttons in the 501s.

Of P. Printed. Transcribed. Vertebrated.
that tail that my heart spins on

Of Q. Quote
unquote.

Of R. The months when oysters are eaten. Including Jurn, Jurlie,
Ourgust, and Mare.

Of S. Somewhat immaterial. Smart as sparrow eye. Dumb as saliva.

Of the t-shaped sphere-hook that caught
the flounder that we grilled at low-tide
on the beach so many years ago.

Man of U. Sans serif.

Of V. The votive set in the crux of a camphor tree.

Of woad-waxen. The dyer's green weed.

And the x-axis. And the archaic yegg.

Of Z. And all that razzmatazz. Of the single snare's zone time in the
Zebra-stripped Z-Bar. And it's fun to talk in Dietrich's accent, because
"Your eyes are zee stars above zee Baltics," as your forefinger undoes the
zip code. Again. Spring. What with all you have laid out for me,
beloved, as I climb up and down this ladder that is my life's sentence.

Catherine Bowman
Assistant Professor of Creative Writing
IU Bloomington