Louis Althusser & Pink Floyd

People everywhere who are barely familiar with Pink Floyd’s seminal album The Wall (1979) will most likely still be able to recognize the iconic refrain from the album’s most popular and enduring three-part song, “Another Brick in the Wall” which features a chorus of British schoolboys chanting, “We don’t need no education…” This song serves perfectly as an example and cultural representation of Louis Althusser’s concept of interpellation or “hailing” in his essay Ideology and Ideological State Apparatuses.

To provide a bit of historical context, the song was written by Roger Waters, who grew up during World War II in Surrey, England. His father was a devout Christian, a Communist, and a schoolteacher. “Another Brick in the Wall” is broken out into three parts, and the opening words of the first part are, “Daddy’s flown across the ocean, leaving just a memory.” The absence of a father figure and a strong reliance on a distant yet comforting mother are strong themes in The Wall, and this is worth mentioning at the beginning of this essay because it serves as a precursor for what I’ll argue as the key element of the educational apparatus, which Althusser does not state directly, namely that its strength lies in its ability to fill the void within an elementary student’s developing psyche, a void which is inevitable and only varies in degree from student to student.

Althusser writes that “ideology interpellates individuals as subjects” and that the dominant ideological state apparatus (or ISA) is the education system. In the song “Another Brick in the Wall” there is a dual or intra-interpellation happening between teacher and student, where each one hails the other: “You! Yes, you! Stand still, laddy!” (the vitriolic teacher to student) and “Hey! Teacher! Leave those kids alone.” (the courageous student to teacher). What happens as a result is that both teacher and student recognize and define each other by their status within the educational ISA. Althusser states two functions of ideology: the recognition and nonrecognition (inverse) function, so powerful in its subtle way of singling out an individual while simultaneously placing him or her within the sphere of the ideology’s grip: we see this overtly in the military, with the title of sergeant, private, etc. highlighting the individual’s last name and therefore his or her personal significance, and we see it (to use Althusser’s example) become as commonplace as shouting “Hey, you there!” to someone in the street. The person hailed turns to his addressor and thus becomes a subject. In “Another Brick” both students and teacher are subjects within the confines of their invented yet illusory relationship. It is important to note that the teacher is as much a subject here as the student (neither of which have names), for without the student the teacher’s role as authority figure does not exist.


Therefore I would like to take Althusser’s ideas one step further and argue that the “strange phenomenon” of the one hailed recognizing that it is he being hailed occurs because the one hailing and the one so hailed have a deep need for each other. It is not simply “guilt feelings” that explains this phenomenon, as Althusser suggests. “Another Brick” serves as a powerful artistic and cultural example, in post-war England, of interpellation happening on a deep level within the psyches of young children and adults alike, all of whom have a void that needs to be filled with a new relationship: a parental one.

The reason the educational ISA is the most dominant (and the same reason that the Church, prior to this, used to be) is that within the educational sphere is the sub-sphere of a surrogate family ISA. Whether an orphan or the only child of loving parents, every child experiences a growing awareness of himself as an “other,” which begins, as Lacan suggested, when he first sees himself in the mirror. As the child ages he necessarily grows more aware of the increasing boundaries between himself and the world. What began as a warm, boundary-less existence in the womb becomes the colder reality of isolation. This is a major theme in the entire album of The Wall, and its central focal point appears in “Another Brick.”

Children experience a second family at school, with teachers as new mothers and fathers, and classmates as new siblings. The drama of the “family romance” Freud wrote about in his famous essay is played out within the confines of the schoolyard, the classroom, the gymnasium. Althusser refers to the School as taking children at a vulnerable age, which is key to its effectiveness. A child is so impressionable that the order and unity lacking at home are heralded in the School. Suddenly he is a part of something larger than the family, something with a wider reach, something with a uniform, discipline, a social environment, the promise of friends and a successful future. The singer of “Another Brick” is totally alienated and is given a defined role by the School, a place where he is singled out and hailed.

The final result of the intra-interpellation within the School is that, in a terrible irony, students are individuated as subjects but then subjected to uniformity. By this I mean that they are made one and the same, with no unique qualities that separate them from the rest. In order to be a part of the solidarity and function of the wall, one must sacrifice one’s individuality and become just another brick like the others. This is dramatically (and almost comically) portrayed in Alan Parker’s film version of The Wall (1982) with the image of students walking mechanically as if on a conveyor belt into a machine which spits them out sitting at a desk and with deformed, mask-like faces. Individuality is certainly lost. There is an evolution of Marxist thought in this image: what began as factory workers operating on a conveyor belt system has advanced to the workers themselves on the conveyor belt, reduced to the same purpose as the jenny and the loom of Marx’s and Engels’ time. The perils of capitalism are exposed, not simply in its exploitation of human beings (subjects), but in its deformity of them. The masked students are then shown plunging face-first into a meat grinder.


There is also the use of violence, which Althusser carefully explains is the backbone of the RSA’s (Repressive State Apparatus) but always present as a threat within the ISA’s. This is clear in the lyrics of the brief song between parts one and two of “Another Brick” ironically titled, “The Happiest Days of Our Lives”: When we grew up and went to school, there were certain teachers who would hurt the children any way they could.

This interlude ends with the following lines, sung in a tone which shifts from a suppressed anger to an explosive victory of revenge: But in the town, it was well known that when they got home at night, their fat and psychopathic wives would thrash them within inches of their lives! This suggests a cyclical nature of violence, not just in the karmic sense but more importantly as a demonstration of the way the educational and family apparatuses are connected, i.e. that the former is a substitute for the latter.

In the film adaptation the song ends with students erupting into anarchy: tearing off their masks, overturning desks, and destroying the school. Alas, the final image is our narrator, rubbing his hand after being smacked with a ruler, and we realize he was merely daydreaming. This reinforces the idea that Marx’s revolution is unattainable, once we understand, through Althusser, that we are always-already subjects.


An Excerpt from my Master’s Thesis, “‘A Hundred Red Birds’: Aesthetics of War in the Poetry of Yusef Komunyakaa”

What makes Komunyakaa’s war poems (and the collection Dien Cai Dau in particular) so compelling is its insistence on–or rather its obsession with–the constant merging of dualities like these. It is seen over and over again in the tone, style, imagery, color scheme, gender politics, action, themes, and words of the poems. It is found in nearly every manifestation possible in poetry because, like the long list of unsatisfactory metaphors used to describe a girl burning in “You and I Are Disappearing,” there is no satisfactory, definitive, and conclusive moment for Komunyakaa wherein he finds the ultimate unity and sublime synthesis he desperately hunts. It is the impossibility of this synthesis that, in my opinion, drives Komunyakaa to continue writing about war, just as it drives history onward in Hegel’s theory.

Of the many various manifestations of merging dualities in Komunyakaa’s war poems, foremost is the blending of the horror of violence and pacific beauty. In his essay “Violence and Selfhood,” James Mensch posits the notion that violence “wipes the slate clean,” thereby clearing open “a space where the new can appear” (30). Drawing on the Czech philosopher Jan Patocka, Mensch pushes the idea that “[violence] makes us realize that sense-making is up to us, that it depends on our free choice how to disclose both the world and ourselves through our projects” (qtd. in Mensch 32). At the same time that violence creates a space of horror and senselessness, it also acts as an eraser for the psychic and emotional state of being in those within that space, which in turn allows–or perhaps demands–the act of creation to make sense of what has happened. From this perspective, it becomes clear how Komunyakaa used poetry to shape the experiences he had while serving as a soldier in Vietnam.

In fact, many veterans wrote of their experiences while in the war, and found its therapeutic value. In his highly revealing essay, “Childhood’s End: Self Recovery in the Autobiography of the Vietnam War,” Jeff Loeb explains the central motive for veterans of the war who write about their experiences to be an attempt to recover a sense of self. Loeb cites the critic Kali Tal, who saw a pattern of Vietnam survival literature to be similar to other trauma literature, “such as the memoirs of the Holocaust or victims of rape or incest…” (qtd. in Loeb 96) In this sense Komunyakaa’s poems are nothing like the confessional poets than poems like “Nude Interrogation” may at first appear. In addition to baring his innermost secrets, those dark hallways of depression and mental disorder that gave others such rich creative reservoirs to draw from (what Edward Hirsch calls “the fever of confession,”) Komunyakaa’s poetry is an attempt at healing from very deep wounds (122).

Tal’s pattern of “trauma literature” involves the following process: “first, separation from society, followed by a state of liminality, during which the traumatic experience of the war itself and the surviving of it take place, and finally ending back home, in ‘The World’” (qtd. in Loeb 96-97). For Komunyakaa and other soldiers, however, the world had changed dramatically while they were away, and they had changed dramatically also. The real tragedy, then, was that the heroic “return” they expected was impossible. In his book, The Hero with a Thousand Faces, Joseph Campbell notes the pattern in historical mythology of all heroic stories as being journeys. The final part of these journeys is the return: “When the hero-quest has been accomplished…the adventurer still must return with his life-transmuting trophy. The hero has something to bring back home which will impact his village in a profoundly positive way, a ‘renewing of the community’” (255).

Age-old stories of heroes going away to battle dark forces, internally and externally, had always ended in a triumphant return home. Odysseus returns to Ithaca, reunites with his son Telemachus, and slays the suitors competing for his wife. Even the Biblical story of the Prodigal Son offers redemption. The prodigal son comes home empty-handed, yet is embraced by his father and a celebration takes place in his honor. He has nothing to offer for his time away: no boon, no golden fleece. Granted, the story marks a change in this type of myth, and illustrates the power of forgiveness. The son wastes his money on food and prostitutes, yet receives the treatment of a hero. Would it be the same if he had murdered innocent women and children?

What return did the soldiers who fought in Vietnam experience? Many of the soldiers sent off to Vietnam were teenagers or, as in Komunyakaa’s case, in their early 20s. Rather than experience the transition to adulthood within the familiar environment they were used to, that transition happened violently and too quickly. Therefore, the return the soldiers sought was to their former selves, a self that had never experienced the horrors of war, an innocent self–which, of course, was impossible. As Tal concludes, “This post-liminal reintegration, however, is never complete…which is to say, the self-alienation continues, often manifesting itself in compartmentalizing experience or denying portions of memory” (qtd. in Loeb 97). How did this self-alienation manifest itself in Komunyakaa’s psyche and, ultimately, in his poetry? The healing he sought took on multiple levels: a wounded boy searching for his adult self, a soldier searching for his humanity, a man searching for the comfort of a woman, a black man searching for his place among white men. This inner division produced a self and an other that created a poetry which continually built a bridge or a ladder connecting two principles running along the same axis.

For Komunyakaa, the creative shaping did not happen immediately. In fact, it would be 16 long years before he set pen to paper about his experiences in the war. He recounts the summer that it happened in detail, in 1984, nearly 15 years after his service in Vietnam:

Those old houses have twelve- and fourteen-foot ceilings. The humid New Orleans summer had begun edging in, and I wanted to get the hard, high work finished first, where the stifling heat collected. I put a pad of paper and pen on a table in the next room. This had a purpose. The images were coming so fast that, whenever I made a trek down the ladder, each line had to be worth its weight in sweat. That spring and summer I must’ve discarded thousands of images, ones that just a few months earlier I would’ve given up a thumb for. I learned that the body and the mind are indeed connected: good writing is physical and mental. (qtd. in Clytus 14-15)

This account of how Komunyakaa formulated the first drafts of the poems that ultimately became the collection Dien Cai Dau is truly fascinating for several reasons. First, it shows us that images from the war buried deep in his memory suddenly exploded into words a decade and a half later. It also shows us that Komunyakaa recognized the action of painting, going up and down a ladder, and writing poetry as connected, namely that the body and mind were simultaneously engaged in a synergistic creative endeavor. The hot and humid New Orleans setting was also crucial, being reminiscent of Vietnam.

It becomes quite evident, then, that Komunyakaa’s war poems reflect a modality similar to that rhythm and conceptual dynamic by which they were formed. In other words, the connecting of the body and mind, of painting and writing, of going up and going down (polarities) become the central poetic device for the poems themselves. It is also important to note that Komunyakaa himself, as poet, was working on a ladder during this process, a thing that is used to connect two non-adjacent spaces, but which exist on the same axis. It is interesting, too, that he used a ladder because of the vertical direction it suggests.

Robert Bly discusses the idea of the political poem as being a vertical psychological and creative movement in his essay, “Leaping Up Into the Unknown:”

In order to write a true political poem, [the poet] has to be able to have such a grasp of his own concerns that he can leave them for a while, and then leap up into this other psyche. He wanders about there for a while, and as he returns he brings back plantseeds that have stuck to his clothes, some inhabitants of this curious sphere, which he then tries to keep alive with his own psychic body. (133)

The poet’s “own concerns” that Bly refers to here are what he would call the poet’s “inwardness” (133). For Bly, the political poem is not about opinions, a conjecture of external circumstances as seen in the newspapers, but rather a deep internal meditation from a small pocket in the poet’s consciousness which reflects where he or she is within the political climate of that time. Quite unexpectedly then, “the political poem comes out of the deepest privacy” (132). This privacy and the leaping up that Bly speaks of are both tremendously apt when looking at Komunyakaa’s work.

The privacy Komunyakaa explores and exposes is central to his war poems. From a political objective, his poetry is not unlike Allen Ginsberg, who addresses America directly in a headstrong and sardonic tone: “America when will you be angelic? / When will you take off your clothes? / When will you look at yourself through the grave?” (39). Ginsberg also undresses himself, just as Komunyakaa does in “Nude Interrogation.” Yet Komunyakaa is also witness, murderer, and survivor. Komunyakaa’s angel undresses seductively so that he may, too, and rid himself of the poison that is his crime. It is this kind of privacy that, once exposed, becomes powerfully political. He does not ask America to undress; he seduces himself to undress and become naked before America. Both poems give full expression to Bly’s declaration that “a true political poem is a quarrel with ourselves” (132).

The leap up into another psyche that Bly poses as formative of true political poetry suggests a vertical motion, which recalls Komunyakaa on his ladder, painting at the top and descending with “plantseeds that have stuck to his clothes” in the form of words, phrases, images that would become Dien Cai Dau (133). The vertical movement itself appears in the poems, both upward and downward.

Here is the poem “Tunnels,” which opens, “Crawling down headfirst into the hole, / he kicks the air and disappears” (192). It was the downward movement, Komunyakaa stated, that precipitated his writing, at the bottom of the ladder. So, too, our soldier disappears into the unknown void of honest and painful writing. Writing of this sort requires an abandonment, a trust in one’s instinct, but mostly an act of courage. Komunyakaa recognizes this and detaches from the poet-voice within, the poet-soul whose job is to give voice to those things that are obscured by fear. It continues, “I feel like I’m down there / with him, moving ahead, pushed / by a river of darkness, feeling / blessed for each inch of the unknown.” This “river of darkness” is both an echo to Langston Hughes and a recognition that the poet’s own skin color reflects the nature of establishing his poetic voice. Komunyakaa correctly recognizes the energy that exists in this uncomfortable but rich space, with its “damp smell,” “mysteries & diversions,” as well as its “web of booby traps” and “lice, shit, maggots, & vapor of pestilence” (192-193).

The poet, then, must venture down through all of this, into the darkness, which for Komunyakaa holds a deeper significance because the darkness means he’s venturing into his own racial insecurity. There is a force in this tunnel that compels him to move forward, the same force that compelled him to moved down the ladder and release the torrent of images building in his mind for 16 years. The soldier in the poem is “pulled by something greater than life’s ambitions.” And a few lines later he is “forced onward by some need, / some urge.” Komunyakaa successfully dramatizes the quest for the poetic voice (192).

Here is Bly again: “The poet’s main job is to penetrate that husk around the American psyche, and since that psyche is inside him too, the writing of political poetry is like the writing of personal poetry, a sudden drive by the poet inward” (135). It is the same process as what John Ashbery referred to as “lowering a bucket down into a kind of underground stream flowing through his mind” (Macfarquhar 86). Granted, Ashbery’s experience is without the desperation of Komunyakaa’s, but not without its seriousness. The two poets, though radically different, both harness the downward movement into themselves in order to access the poetic. For Komunyakaa, it is not unlike Dante’s downward movement through the circles of Hell.

At the end of “Tunnels” the soldier is brought to full submission “on hands & knees, tunneling past / death” yet “loving the weight of the shotgun / that will someday dig his grave.” I find these last two lines to be problematic. First, a “tunnel rat” (as they were called in Vietnam) was equipped with a pistol, not a shotgun. Pistols were much more efficient in the confined space of a tunnel. Second, if the gun itself is symbolic of the poet’s pen, why does Komunyakaa believe it will someday “dig his grave”? I have come to believe that his poetry is an attempt to rescue himself from his own wounds, and this reading does not agree with my theory. There is a narrative arc to the positioning of the poems in Dien Cai Dau, with “Digging” the second poem, and “Facing It” last. With “Digging” Komunyakaa might be fully engaging in a proleptic fashion the fear of his soldier-poet, who, by voluntarily descending into this tunnel, becomes aware that the shotgun, designed to protect him, may actually be the thing that kills him. The poet fears that the writing itself will kill him, yet he still loves the weight of his weapon, the pen (192-193).

Wild Ambitions: Jean-Marc Vallée’s New Film

I watched Jean-Marc Vallée’s new film, Wild, the other night and it has passed the test of what a good film should do: it has stayed with me. The first Vallée film I saw was Dallas Buyers Club last year, and I remember being blown away by Matthew McConaughey’s performance and a little bothered by the pacing of the film. Why can’t a scene last longer than 20 seconds? I thought. And this pace held throughout, from beginning to end, like a rapid-fire picture book whose characters only come to life when the pages are fluttered. While watching Wild, I realized that my slight contempt for this style was due to the fact that it was new to me. I was used to scenes developing slowly, characters moving across a shot like in theater, dialogue taking its time, emotions coming to a boil and holding us in rapt attention. Of course, the further back in time you go in the history of film, the longer and more drawn-out the shots are, until you get to the very beginning.

In the early 1900s, just when film was being born, movies were 10-15 minutes long, and were made up of short cuts, not long, drawn-out scenes. This was because time was of the essence, and the technique was a consequence of directors being forced to be as economical as possible. On top of that, films were silent, and therefore did not have the luxury of dialogue to explain the action: it had to be shown as quickly and efficiently as possible. This could be seen in the films of D. W. Griffith. The genius of Griffith was that he innately understood both the possibilities and the restrictions of film as a medium. “Griffith soon came to realize that the basic articulations of cinematic storytelling [were] not scenes, but rather individual shots.” (1) Vallée goes back to film’s roots to give us individual shots that fix a place in our mind: our hero’s struggle on the ground with an enormous backpack, symbolic of the weight of her pain, which gradually gets lighter during her journey; her first encounter with a man, who happens to be naked — ironic, we learn, because of her struggles with impulsive sex — yet the shot’s Edenic quality is baptismally soothing, a chance for her to start over in this area; her defiant throwing away of shoes that she has outgrown, and opting for the humble alternative of duck-taped sandals; her encounter with an old fox, who limps away, and her yelling “Come back!”; an angelic child whose song finally gives her permission to privately grieve.

What is remarkable about Vallée’s technique, I realized, is that it is the same technique used by the mind in regards to memory. We do not remember scenes from our past. We remember our past the same way we remember our dreams: as individual shots. This was what Proust wrote about in Swann’s Way: that as human beings we are artists because we must, as a rule, recreate our past by filling in the empty spaces. Anyone who tells a story verbatim, detail for detail, with the utmost accuracy exactly as the events occurred, will still subtly change those details each time he tells it. In that way the story is dynamic and alive, because it changes over time. If nature is an artist, time is its medium.

And so, when I think back to classics like Key Largo (1948), I remember long, drawn-out scenes with lots of dialogue that was surely splendid, but whose words I cannot recall. I remember a hurricane, a drunk woman getting cut off, and Bogey killing the villain by shooting him through a hatch in the roof of a boat. That is all I remember. The problem with a film like Key Largo is that it is not conscious of its own medium. A film is not a play, and it is certainly not a novel. It communicates in a multitude of ways, which makes it unique — through images, words, and sounds — but its primary mode of conveying an idea is always the image. Dialogue and music should only enhance the image, not replace it or act as a substitute for it. (Think of Kubrick’s use of Strauss’s “Also Sprach Zarathustra” in his film, 2001: A Space Odyssey: the magnitude of sound and image coalesce.)

Vallée seems to understand the primary importance of the individual shot, and his film Wild succeeds on this level. It is especially appropriate given the synopsis of the film, which involves a woman hiking over 1,000 miles on the Pacific Coast Trail in order to emotionally cleanse herself from her past, her sins, her grief. The simplicity of the plot renders Vallée’s fast-paced, quick-cut technique all the more effective, giving it a refreshing tightness and focus. In addition, his weaving of flashbacks through cross-cuts brings us even closer to our hero because she is feeling those memories at the same time she is hiking the trail. In fact, she is re-feeling them and, as a result, releasing them. We, as viewers, get to witness what that looks like for her. Thus this imbrication of images is the correct way to visually communicate this particular story. Vallée sacrifices fancy dialogue in favor of the concrete image. Interestingly, he also understands the way in which we get our information today — quick shots (Instagram), abbreviated conversations (text message) — and uses this to his advantage in a way that he knows audiences will respond to and absorb. He knows our attention span is short, he knows we are restless.

My instinctive mistrust of this fast-paced, short-cut technique was based on my own yearning for the familiar. I wanted a scene, not a shot. Or at least one longer than 20 seconds. But Wild is a film about letting go, not about the intricacies of starting new relationships. It clocks in at 115 minutes, but felt like an hour, though days later it still seemed like I’d been on a long, transformational journey. Which, of course, I had. After all, life is not a series of scenes, but a series of moments, too quick to achieve permanence. As quickly as those moments come, they are gone. Then they exist in our minds, a kaleidoscope of images — some of which we hold on to, many of which we lose, and some of which, we let go.

1. http://www.nettonet.org/Nettonet/Film%20Program/history/Griffith.htm

Masker’s Orchard, October

Fresh from rain, the orchard sags, wet.
Branches drop drips in the grass.
Apples dimple the ground, some too soft, rotted,
my thumb puncturing its skin,
some glistening a perfect red.
We plod along together, unsure of a direction,
embarrassed at Nature’s unabashed display,
her fruit laying about like a woman’s undergarments
on her bedroom floor.
The wetness climbs our shoes, darkens the hems of our jeans.
Somewhere children shout, run. Slowly our bags fill.
I wrap an arm around her for warmth.
She crunches into red flesh, exposing a pocket of white cotton,
comments on the balance of sweet and tart.
We crest a hill. I’m still lost, this many years into my life.
The sky gently pulls grey clouds away from itself.
My mother, pulling blue blankets up to my chin.
The tucking under the chin. The kiss.
The hand disappearing into blackness.

Donut Dollies (by Yusef Komunyakaa)

The three stood outside TOC
smiling, waiting with donuts & coffee
for the dusty-green platoon
back from a fire fight,
as the midday sun
fell through their sky-
blue dresses with Red Cross
insignias over their breasts,
like half-hearted cheerleaders.
But the GIs filed past them
with night-long tracer glare
still in their eyes
& the names of dead men
caught in their throats.
Across the hills a recoilless rifle
& mortar spoke to each other.
They followed a thousand-yard stare
until they walked out of boots and fatigues
& fled into the metal stalls
to shower off the night.
For days the donut dollies
were unable to stop shaking
their heads, like a ripple
trembling through horses.
Even back at the Officers’ Club
they couldn’t pull their eyes away
from the line of infantrymen
dragging their tired feet,
molded into a slow melody
inside bowed heads. They
were unable to feel the hands
slip under their uniforms & touch
money belts next to their pale skin.

Och’s Orchard

After a run by the reservoir they changed clothes in the car and drove west on Interstate 80 to the orchard, the sweet smell of apples in the air, an abundance of apples everywhere, like plump rubies in the grass. They dropped into the dips of the hills and knolls, down dirt paths and around trees, lifting branches and leaves, picking Winesaps, Jersey Macintoshes, Cortlands, Jonagolds, Crispins, Macouns. The bags grew heavy and he slowed, drifting behind her, watching as she became a part of the landscape, her plaid flannel shirt and bright blue jeans, her braided hair, her smile as she looked back over her shoulder at no one else but him.

Later they drove through the softly falling dusk into the blue fields of a drive-in theater. The big screen tarnished and looming against the sky. Rows of cars nestled in like spoons. The sounds from the film echoing out of open doors, open trunks, out into the night and upward against the autumn stars. Two canvas bags sat in the backseat, packed with the apples they’d plucked, ripe and ready for eating. They moved to the grass, laying down their coats, and lay there on their stomachs, each with an arm wrapped around the other, like childhood friends. He knew then that this was how love happened, through the basic rituals of his kind; that it was as much a decision as any work of fate, a surrender of that familiar resistance. That he’d been saying yes yes yes all day in his heart.

Ode to Dreams

In one I was lost inside a creamery,
Milkjars in wooden cases surrounding me.
Another involved a sailboat within a flotilla,
On which stood my mother, wearing a blue apron.

In you I am unable to move, holding
Pebbles in my palms as if they were children.
Or a lion softly falls asleep on my back
With its claws clutched around my chest.

You are quiet, elusive, rawboned.
You ask for nothing in return.
Our friendship is a strange one:
Permanent yet unsatisfactory.

We do not hold hands walking to the train,
Or listen as the moon sings its white song.
Instead, you give me sensual mystery:
Like the girl with cerulean eyes, who ran

Laughing as I chased her across the sand.
I woke with the image of her chestnut hair,
And carried it everywhere with me
For the rest of that day.