Is nothing real but when I was
Going on sixteen, like a corny song?
I see myself so clearly then, and painfully--
Knees bleeding through my usher's
Behind the candy counter in the theater
After a morning's surfing; paddling frantically
To top the brisk outsiders coming
to wreck me,
Trundle me clumsily along the beach floor's
Gravel and sand; my knees aching with salt.
Is that all
I have to write about?
You write about the life that's vividest.
And if that is your own, that is your subject.
And if the
years before and after sixteen
Are colorless as salt and taste like sand--
Return to those remembered chilly mornings,
spreading like a great skin on the water,
And the blue water scalloped with wind-ridges,
And--what was it exactly?--that
When, to invigorate yourself, you peed
Inside your bathing suit and felt the warmth
around your hips and thighs,
And the first set rolled in and the water level
Rose in expectancy, and the sun struck
surface like a brassy palm,
Flat and gonglike, and the wave face formed.
Yes. But that was a summer so removed
In time, so
specially peculiar to my life,
Why would I want to write about it again?
There was a day or two when, paddling out,
An older boy
who had just graduated
And grown a great blonde moustache, like a walrus,
Skimmed past me like a smooth machine on the
And said my name. I was so much younger,
To be identified by one like him--
The easy deference of a kind of god
Who also went
to church where I did--made me
Reconsider my worth. I had been noticed.
He soon was a small figure crossing waves,
crest surrounding him with spray,
Whiter than gull feathers. He had said my name
Without scorn, just with a bit
To notice me among those trying the big waves
Of the morning break. His name is carved now
On the black wall in Washington, the frozen wave
That grievers cross to find
a name or names.
I knew him as I say I knew him, then,
Which wasn't very well. My father preached
He came home in a bag
That may have mixed in pieces of his squad.
Yes, I can write about a lot of things
summer that I turned sixteen.
But that's my ground swell. I must start
Where things began to happen and I knew it.
-from Questions for Ecclesiastes