Tag Archives: An Innocent in the House of the Dead

The Bubble Pot

John and JoannaI met him quite by accident, although later
I’d concede that it was Fate, that tripartite
goddess alert to put a twist in things.
Spoke in the wheel. Bird in the bush.

Round about the caldron go;
in the poison’d entrails throw.

As if they cared tuppence what would
become of us. Those Weird Sisters.
Harsh Spinners. Maiden, mother, crone.
Witches, stirring at the bubble pot.

Fillet of a fenny snake,
in the caldron boil and bake.

He wrote to me, you see. That piece
out of my novel in the paper, the cat
in the next cell whose mother
looked up my address. All that.

Eye of newt, and toe of frog.
Wool of bat, and tongue of dog.

He asked me to come see him, and I came.
Lamb to the slaughter, peat to the flame.
It was, he told me later,
as though it had been planned.

Adder’s fork, and blind-worm’s sting,
lizard’s leg, and owlet’s wing.

I had never been inside a prison
in my life. He had barely been outside.
So it was up to me to take that giant
leap across the tracks.

For a charm of powerful trouble,
like a hell-broth boil and bubble.

One small step, the spaceman said.
Moonwalker. Moontalker.
The moon is cold.
The witches’ brew is hot.

Cool it with a baboon’s blood,
then the charm is firm and good.

John Lee’s Reunion with His Birth Mother

John Lee, 12 years old

John Lee, 12 years old

 

 

When I met John in 2006, he had not seen his birth mother in sixteen years, so I arranged to bring her down from Hurlock, Maryland, to visit him for his birthday. The experience was so powerful that the only way I could express it was in this poem, which became part of the collection An Innocent in the House of the Dead:

 

Witness

I brought your mother down from Maryland.
I intended to surprise you,
but in the way of close-held secrets, it leaked out.
Or else I told you.
Maybe out of curiosity to see what you would say.
Are you trying to give me a heart attack?
Or to give you something wonderful to think about.
Yes, wonderful, despite the sixteen years.

Or to test you, maybe, to determine
if you tell the truth
when you say you have forgiven her for all
the beatings, for throwing you away,
when you say you’ve always loved her,
wanted nothing as a child but to go back to her.
I do not know. Intentions are so slippery.
Like ice squeezed in the hand, they skid away,

they melt, take on another shape.
Intentions, when you come right down to it,
are not much good for anything,
which is why trials go awry,
why men are locked up when they shouldn’t be,
or not locked up when they should.
So my intentions do not matter.
All that matters is I did it. And she came.

I thought you both would jump
clear through the bars and glass.
No touching. Touching not allowed.
Not even after sixteen years. Not even for a mother.
I wanted you to be alone. I offered,
and was glad when both of you refused.
Glad to be a witness to this amazing joy,
this grief pent up so long.

A visitation booth is tiny.
Like a phone booth, like a shoe box,
like a bathroom in a dollhouse.
But joy and grief are big, enormous,
and they filled it, made the walls bulge
and begin to crack,
like an explosion in a cave, or mine shaft,
or railroad tunnel underground,

or like the high priests’ rams’ horns
blown outside the walls of Jericho,
or a story told across the years
compressed into a poem, or a song.
There was that intensity.
It backed me up against the door and I slid down it,
sat there with my arms around my knees—
high heels, stockings, and my best gray suit.

I wanted to be small, to disappear.
Intruder. Voyeur. Secret agent.
But you said, No, get up, sit next to her,
sit right there on that stool.
And she kept saying, Baby, oh, my baby,
my sweet Johnny Lee.
The boy locked in the frame before her.
Ageless. Beautiful. Child out of her womb.