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Aunt History has a ton of problems
She’s not unlike Penelope
Weaving and un-weaving
While outside her door
Brutal men
Tear at the curtains
Meanwhile
She inserts wisdom
Into tapestries
Treadle, warp
Reed and shuttle…
Homer never mentions
The song in mind
The Ithaca song
The one that keeps
Women going
It’s the oldest song
On earth—
Men don’t know
What its called
Which is why
It’s not in the Odyssey
It’s a Swedish word
“Namlost”
No name for it…

Something terrible happens
In Uncle History’s wrist
When he puts his hand in the stream
He feels premonitions
Innocent people and animals
Are soon to be harmed
He pushes deeper
Brushes aside the reeds—
So many ghastly forecasts
Water bearing rumors
Probable ones
What can he do
The future
Isn’t his specialty
There’s no word
For anticipating
Atrocities in advance
In turn
There’s no way
To defeat this
Cold water
On his wrist bone
Lonesome on the riverbank

His past selves
Trail him in the dark
Uncle History’s
Mendicants
Begging for alms
They cry out
“Remind us
Who was where
When the city
Locked its gates
Against Rousseau
Which passengers
Ran out of pills
At mid ocean
Father
You’re running so fast
We’re trying
To keep up”
But now Uncle
Is far ahead
Dressed
Like Mozart’s
Bird catcher
In a suit
Of feathers
But without mirth
Or a song

Uncle History has gone into the day so deep
Even the insects are in awe
His watch stops
Memories fade like smoke
Diderot, Catherine the Great
Clark Gable, Joan
Crawford all gone—
He no longer recalls
Who they were
He spins a bottle
Wobble wobble
Who’s this?
Why its David Niven
Returning to the school
Where he was beaten
As a child
Only to find
Its abandoned
First the places go
Then the people
But the insects
Beside the ruined factory
Know losing your mind
Is lovely

New York City 1903

The very day
Edison
Electrocutes an elephant
Caruso
Dressed as a clown
Sings
Of a broken heart
With a drum
In his arms
And Uncle History
Hears the “squillo”
That ping
In a tenor’s voice
Which only the greatest
Can achieve
He thinks
For the umpteenth time
Of Poe—
Believe nothing you hear
And only one half that you see
But walking up Fifth
The notes
Stay with him
There’s something
At work in his soul
Which he doesn’t understand

Aunt History knows an unending
Series of sayings—many
Taught by mothers
“Don’t poke that thing
With a stick…”
“Never eat something
That’s been dead
For more than a day”
She’s kept track
Of each word
For as long
As language itself—
Turns out
You can teach
Absolute crap
To small children
“Watch out
For those crippled kids
Those Black ones
Those who limp
That blind girl
Beware…
But c’mon over
Let me jiggle you
On my knee”

Auntie History steals from everyone
She’s Jeffersonian like that
Theft comes for archbishops
And clam diggers
She hides spoons
Under her blouse
“You’re going to lose it
Anyway” she says
But her “marks”
Only hear dogs
Barking far off
Thievery?
Invaluable
Originality?
Non-existent
Of course
She swipes books
And musical scores
Things that speak directly
To her soul—
Its the only way
She knows she has one

There was this scientist
Put a microphone
Into an ants nest
Mandibles, legs,
Antennae, jaws
Pure John Cage
Music of tiny hairs
“Sounds like
My nieces and nephews”
Uncle History sez
“My stowaway tribe”
Each child
Doing its part
Lifting the sugar cube
Of tragedy
All in darkness
On any given day
They’re busy
Moving the sweet horror
Like the children
Of the poor
They’ve been put to work
Early

There’s nothing between uncle history
And his relatives—he’s the good uncle—
Quiet, respectful,
Happy (when it rains)
To play Monopoly
He speaks volumes
With his eyes
His sister, La Religieuse
Has loads of children
Game time lasts months
And the green, democratic
Springtime sneaks up
The way seasons do
Silently, infused
With death
They keep rolling
The dice—
Chance, no chance
Fireflies appearing
At windows

When spring comes
Uncle History puts away
His winter carvings
Raises his checkered face
Walks in the open
Whispers the oldest sentence
“Live a little, after all…”
His home-made nick-nacks
Tell another story—
Shuman under Clara’s piano
Music, the refuge
Of color
Weary eyes
Blood spatters
Of tuberculosis
He carves these things
Because they are true
Little chatchkas
That resemble birds
You can go in his house
And look