In the margins of a journal taken from the bottom of a trunk

 

Through a snapping wind the young
in sandals   ℘   draped with anti-war
sentiments   ℘   festive Fall maple leaves visible
from the reflective Sachar Center   ℘   the well-tested weary
in tweeds and briefcases

fantasizing breakfast   ⎶   at five on a Sunday
morning   ⎶   cafeteria opens at noon   ⎶   a
night on the couch   ⎶   not inquiringEveryone in Russian class for
who’s in my room   ⎶   somebody crackeda different reason   ∏   To read Trotsky   ∏   To read
Saturday nightTolstoy   ∏   To get a job at the CIA   ∏   But I
was there because I loved
language   ∏   so like Russians, having trouble
wow I need yourwith the instrumental
notes   ⩕   didn’t get the timeline
at all   ⩕   these worth morewe came down from our
than a ticket to a Patti Smith concertdorm   ⨒   we’re looking for some
conversation and a hit   ⨒   for people
two students separatedlike us, like, aloof toward the long
by only the tablet arm of a chair   ⨂   onelooming hours of homework
racks up privilege   ⨂   that will open the world
to him   ⨂   the other walks off into
an unsparing gaze
of a hostile arcade

 

⩉           ashtrays on rutted pine tables     ⩉     a clack on the lattice board earns White a second eye     ⩉     the expedited exchange of bishop for knight      ⩉      a guitar strummed in the Castle haven

 

The recital hall is locked      ♯      The custodian
will get here ten minutes early      ♯      But it takes half an
hour to tune the harpsichord
here to analyze the revolution
we missed   ⤥   to pick up yards
in the resurgence   ⤥   we’re meeting
describe false consciousness   ⌭   it’s rightat the Castle tonight   ⤥   as the Viet Cong
here in this class   ⌭   you shouldtake Saigon   ⤥   one more rally to resolve
update the textbook   ⌭   you should be ina generation
the textbook   ⌭   I’ll immortalize you
in a pamphlet

come quick   ⩰   the girl raw-eyed
no not here   ⩰   get up
unknown substance unknown
source   ⩰   not at three
in the morning   ⩰   back here
come   ⩰   to cajole a suicidal young
girl   ⩰   it’s up to us tonight

 

to those who planted the lessons of those days in wider fields
to those who wrote the endowment checks

This poem was published in issue #2 of Ranger magazine.

Andy Oram
December 7, 2020

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