Jigsaw with Soundtrack
Shanna Compton

1.
As an experiment, intertwine the sense
of sight with sound. Allow a steaming stand
of cypress knees to bubble in an electric bog,
please, just for a minute. There, see-a drip
in a polished steel cave. There are no silver
apples here, no rolling goddesses, or judgments
of Paris. And thank goodness. What we do have
is enough. What we have is a human backbeat
behind the strings of some mystical guitar.
(You think I'm kidding.) A simultaneity composed
of jungle somehow, and moon. Not just apples.

2.
We also have a million men with rubber
bands and thumb pianos, marching in black and white
amid bright blips of green. It's a scene we recognize
from an old movie-a parade viewed from a great
distance of time for an ominous, uncanny effect.
It scares the cat. It freaks the ears. Are those dolls
dancing on garrote wire, or a swarm
of synapse-flying bats? Either way,
volume is both space and sound.

3.
The planet throbs with a deep light,
but the traffic never stops. No one gets out
to look. What we have here is a miracle
without tourists. The power lines in California
and the phones in Brazil all buzz at once.
And upstairs, an out-of-work actress warms her voice.

4.
Here's a scene from the Ludlow Street days:
The hydraulics of the hulks outside hiss
at seven A.M., chewing up the asphalt.
Todo Con Nada works the late shift, spilling
drama onto the sidewalk every night at ten.
A teakettle whistles, then lifts off toward
the stars. The show must have gone on,
because here we are.

5.
Listen-there's a radio being tuned. Other sounds
scratch at the door like lost dogs. Someone
somewhere plugs in a new-fangled piano
for a bit of ragtime in a register higher than
(a plate crashes)
a hard-blown horn. Has everything become a game
in the parlor, or is there still something more?
A swing in space
A space in noise
A slot for thoughts in music
Everywhere a twitter, a burble, and a hum.

6.
A hardcover mystery jigsawed in a pistol shape
is enough to get you stopped at O'Hare.
A chunky paperback, say, The Collected Poems
of W. H. Auden, being the largest object at hand,
possesses substance enough to break a window.
Those kids with the pellet gun started it,
Officer. We will not defenestrate
any more poems, yes.

7.
Space between things creates
a calming effect. Fatal collisions have been
reduced to only thousands per second
on freeways everywhere. And we rescued old
Wystan, never worry. Today, a four-year-old
threatened to kill me. He didn't know
what he meant, but I knew
he'd grow into it.

© 2002 Shanna Compton