those eighteen glammering gold chains around the throat of pity,

to crush a fool’s face like newsprint; headlines

Sometimes drugged & duffled (by white men) into a cockpit

in a hedgerow afro, an ox-grunt kicking dust behind the teeth; those eighteen glammering

A man made of scrap muscle & the steam

And just what was mother doing out back with the field mice? Why,

Sometimes there were things to watch- the pinched armor of a vanished cricket, a floating maple leaf.

a doll slumped behind the door.

steaming on the line,

building a palace.

when she closed her eyes she’d see only her own vivid blood.

So she lugged a chair behind the garage to sit out the children’s naps.

If you could hear, at every jolt, the blood Come gargling from the froth-corrupted lungs,

As under a green sea, I saw him drowning.

like a devil’s sick of sin;

If in some smothering dreams, you too could pace Behind the wagon that we flung him in,

And flound’ring like a man in fire or lime.

Bent double, like old beggars under sacks,

He raises both hands to touch the cloth, asks, Which is this? This is persimmons, Father.

Once, in the cellar, I found two wrapped in newspaper, forgotten and not yet ripe. I took them and set both on my bedroom windowsill, where each morning a cardinal sang, The sun, the sun.

Mrs. Walker brought a persimmon to class and cut it up so everyone could taste a Chinese apple. Knowing it wasn’t ripe or sweet,

fight and fright, wren and yarn. Fight was what I did when I was frightened, Fright was what I felt when I was fighting. Wrens are small, plain birds, yarn is what one knits with. Wrens are soft as yarn.

Ripe ones are soft and brown-spotted. Sniff the bottoms. The sweet one will be fragrant.

between persimmon and precision.

"Poor Bobby," Mrs. Das said. "Come here a second. Let Mommy fixyour hair.

"Mr. Kapasi," Mrs. Das shrieked, noticing him standing to one side."Do something, for God’s sake, do something!

"It means that I’m tired of feeling so terrible all the time. Eight years,Mr. Kapasi, I’ve been in pain eight years. I was hoping you could help mefeel bette~; say the fight thing. Suggest some kind of remedy."

"We met when we were very. young," she said. She reached into herstraw bag in search of something, then pulled ont a packet of puffed rice."Want some?’’

Even when they had made love shekept the panels of her blouse hooked together, the string of her petticoatknotted around her waist.

When he finished writing his address Mr. Kapasi handed her thepaper, but as soon as he did so he worried that he had either misspelledhis name, or accidentally reversed the numbers of his postal code. Hedreaded the possibility of a lost letter, the photograph never reachinghim, hovering somewhere in Orissa, close but ultimately unattainable.He thought of asking for the slip of paper again, just to make sure he hadWritten his address ac

"What’s your address, Mr. Kapasi?" she inquired, fishingfor something inside her straw bag

He began to check his reflection in the rearview mirror as he drove,feeling grateful that he had chosen the gray suit that morning and notthe brown one, which tended to sag a little in the knees. From time totime he glanced through the mirror at Mrs. Das.

r’s office, or said that his job was a big responsibility.For this reason it flattered Mr. Kapasi that Mrs. Das was so intriguedby his job. Unlike.t’ds wife, she had reminded him of its intellectual chablenges. She had algaused the word "romantic." She did not behave in aromantic ~vay toward her husband, and yet she had used the word todescribe him.

"I don’t know. Something." She shrugged, knitting her brows togetherfor an instant. "Would you like a piece of gum, Mr. Kapasi?" she askedbrightb: She reached into her straw bag and handed him a small squarewrapped in green-and-white-striped paper. As soon as Mr. Kapasi put thegum in his m~uth a thick sweet liquid burst onto his tongue.

Mr. and Mrs. Das behaved like an older brother and sister, notparents. It seemed that they were in charge of the children only for theday

The little girt stuck out a hand. "Mine too. Mommy, do mine too.""Leave me alone," Mrs. Das said, blowing on her nail and turning herbody slightly. "You’re making me mess up."

, but Mrs.Das said nothing to stop her. She sat a bit slonched at one end of theback seat, not offering her puffed rice to anyone.

Mr. Kapasi found it strange that Mr. Das should refer to his wifeby her first name when speaking to the little girl.

onny and Bobby, who appeared very close inage and had teeth covered in a network of flashing silver wires. The fam-ily looked Indian bnt dressed as foreigners did

They were on their way to see the Sun Temple at Konarak. It was adry, bright Saturday, the mid-July heat tempered by a steady oceanbreeze, ideal weather for sightseeing. Ordinarily Mr. Kapasi would nothave stopped so soon along the way, but less than five minutes after he’dpicked up the family that morning in front of Hotel Sandy Villa, the lit

Among the men there would be grumbling, of course, andmaybe worse, because their days would seem longer and theirloads heavier, but Lieutenant Jimmy Cross reminded himselfthat his obligation was not to be loved but to lead. He woulddispense with love; it was not now a factor. And if anyonequarreled or complained, he would simply tighten his lips andarrange his shoulders in the correct command posture

Instead he went back to his maps. He was now determinedto perform his duties firmly and without negligence. It wouldn'thelp Lavender, he knew that, but from this point on he wouldcomport himself as an officer.

He was realistic about it. There was that new hardness in hisstomach. He loved her but he hated her

She signed the letters Love, but it wasn't love, and allthe fine lines and technicalities did not matter. Virginity was nolonger an issue. He hated her. Yes, he did. He hated her. Love,too, but it was a hard, hating kind of love

was a steady rain falling, which made it difficult, but he usedheat tabs and Sterno to build a small fire, screening it with hisbody, holding the photographs over the tight blue flame withthe tips of his fingers

They crawled into tunnels and walked pointand advanced under fire. Each morning, despite the unknowns,they made their legs move. They endured

They carried all the emotional baggage of men who mightdie

l. They wereafraid of dying but they were even more afraid to show it

It seemed unchristian. He wished hecould find some great sadness, or even anger, but the emotionwasn't there and he couldn't make it happen. Mostly he feltpleased to be alive. He liked the smell of the New Testamentunder his cheek, the leather and ink and paper and glue,whatever the chemicals were. He liked hearing the sounds ofnight. Even his fatigue, it felt fine, the stiff muscles and theprickly awareness of his own body, a floating feeling. Heenjoyed not being dead. Lying there, Kiowa admiredLieutenant Jimmy Cross's capacity for grief. He wanted toshare the man's pain, he wanted to care as Jimmy Cross cared.

Say what you want, the man does care.

a poet and a virgin and uninvolved, and becausehe realized she did not love him and never would

something he would have to carry like a stone inhis stomach for the rest of the war

Some things they carried in common.

Lee Strunk made a funny ghost sound, a kind of moaning,yet very happy, and right then, when Strunk made that highhappy moaning sound, when he went Ahhooooo, right thenTed Lavender was shot in the head on his way back frompeeing. He lay with his mouth open. The teeth were broken.There was a swollen black bruise under his left eye

He was just a kid at war, in love. He was twenty-four years old. He couldn't help it

even dancing, she dancedalone—and it was the aloneness that filled him with love

virgin and not a virgin

Dense, crushing love. Kneeling, watching the hole, hetried to concentrate on Lee Strunk and the war, all the dangers,but his love was too much for him, he felt paralyzed, he wantedto sleep inside her lungs and breath

lf. Imagination was a kille

n, but then he would slip awayinto daydreams, just pretending, walking barefoot along theJersey shore, with Martha, carrying nothing.

On the march, through thehot days of early April, he carried the pebble in his mouth,turning it with his tongue, tasting sea salt and moisture. Hismind wandered. He had difficulty keeping his attention on thewar.

They carried him out to a dry paddy, established security, andsat smoking the dead man's dope until the chopper came.

As a medic, Rat Kiley carried a canvas satchel filled withmorphine and plasma and malaria tablets and surgical tape andcomic books and all the things a medic must carry, includingM&M's for especially bad wounds, for a total weight of nearly20 pounds.

The things they carried were largely determined bynecessity.

Martha,

And he was giving it back, as everything must be given back, so that, passing through death, it can live forever. I saw my mother's face again, and felt, for the first time, how the stones of the road she had walked on must have bruised her feet. I saw the moonlit road where my father's brother died. And it brought something else back to me, and carried me past it, I saw my little girl again and felt Isabel's tears again, and I felt my own tears begin to rise. And I was yet aware that this was only a moment, that the world waited outside, as hungry as a tiger, and that trouble stretched above us, longer than the sky.

Then they all gathered around Sonny and Sonny played. Every now and again one of them seemed to say, amen. Sonny's fingers filled the air with life, his life. But that life contained so many others.

Now these are Sonny's blues

"Creole, this is my brother. I told you about him."

And other times-well, I needed a fix, I needed to find a place to lean, I needed to clear a space to listen-and I couldn't find it, and I-went crazy, I did terrible things to me, I was terrible for me.

"that's what I'm telling you! Everybody tries not to. You're just hung up on the way some people try-it's not your way!"

He turned back to the window. "No, there's no way not to suffer. But you try all kinds of ways to keep from drowning in it, to keep on top of it, and to make it seem-well, like you. Like you did something, all right, and now you're suffering for it. You know?" I said nothing. "Well you know," he said, impatiently, "why do people suffer? Maybe it's better to do something to give it a reason, any reason

"Maybe." He played with the notebook. And something told me that I should curb my tongue, that Sonny was doing his best to talk, that I should listen. "But of course you only know the ones that've gone to pieces. Some don't-or at least they haven't yet and that's just about all any of us can say." He paused. "And then there are some who just live, really, in hell, and they know it and they see what's happening and they go right on. I don't know." He sighed, dropped the notebook, folded his arms.

her voice reminded me for a minute of what heroin feels like sometimes-when it's in your veins.

The idea of searching Sonny's room made me still. I scarcely dared to admit to myself what I'd be searching for. I didn't know what I'd do if I found it. Or if I didn't

You going to need me, baby, one of these cold, rainy days

The silence of the next few days must have been louder than the sound of all the music ever played since time began. One morning, before she went to work, Isabel was in his room for something and she suddenly realized that all of his records were gone. And she knew for certain that he was gone. And he was. He went as far as the navy would carry him. He finally sent me a postcard from some place in Greece and that was the first I knew that Sonny was still alive. I didn't see him any more until we were both back in New York and the war had long been over

to this day-was what sacrifices they were making to give Sonny a decent home and how little he appreciated it

And as a matter of fact, it did cheer him up for a minute.

And you only got another year. It ain't so bad. And I'll come back and I swear I'll help you do whatever you want to do. Just try to put up with it till I come back. Will you please do that? For me?"

He rubbed the muscle of one arm. "It's time I was getting out of here.

He turned back to me and half leaned, half sat, on the kitchen table. "Everything takes time," he said, "and-well, yes, sure, I can make a living at it. But what I don't seem to be able to make you understand is that it's the only thing I want to do.

He's just one of the greatest jazz musicians alive,

Well, the word had never before sounded as heavy, as real, as it sounded that afternoon in Sonny's mouth. I just looked at him and I was probably frowning a real frown by this time. I simply couldn't see why on earth he'd want to spend his time hanging around nightclubs, clowning around on bandstands, while people pushed each other around a dance floor.

Two days later I was married, and then I was gone. And I had a lot of things on my mind and I pretty well forgot my promise to Mama until I got shipped home on a special furlough for her funeral

You got to hold on to your brother," she said, "and don't let him fall, no matter what it looks like is happening to him and no matter how evil you gets with him. You going to be evil with him many a time. But don't you forget what I told you, you hear?"

"I ain't telling you all this," she said, "to make you scared or bitter or to make you hate nobody. I'm telling you this because you got a brother. And the world ain't changed.

Oh, yes. Your Daddy never did really get right again

because I never let him mention it before you children.

"Mama," I said, "ain't nothing going to happen to you or Sonny. Sonny's all right. He's a good boy and he's got good sense.

And when light fills the room, the child is filled with darkness. He knows that every time this happens he's moved just a little closer to that darkness outside. The darkness outside is what the old folks have been talking about. It's what they've come from. It's what they endure. The child knows that they won't talk any more because if he knows too much about what's happened to them, he'll know too much too soon, about what's going to happen to him

He hopes that the hand which strokes his forehead will never stop-will never die. He hopes that there will never come a time when the old folks won't be sitting around the living room, talking about where they've come from, and what they've seen, and what's happened to them and their kinfolk.

It was because he loved Sonny so much and was frightened for him, that he was always fighting with him.

I wasn't doing it out of malice. I was trying to find out something about my brother. I was dying to hear him tell me he was safe.

Sonny has never been talkative. So I don't know why I was sure he'd be dying to talk to me when supper was over the first night

So we drove along, between the green of the park and the stony, lifeless elegance of hotels and apartment buildings, toward the vivid, killing streets of our childhood.

This life, whatever it was, had made him older and thinner and it had deepened the distant stillness in which he had always moved. He looked very unlike my baby brother. Yet, when he smiled, when we shook hands, the baby brother I'd never known looked out from the depths of his private life, like an animal waiting to be coaxed into the light

Dear brother, You don't know how much I needed to hear from you. I wanted to write you many a time but I dug how much I must have hurt you and so I didn't write. But now I feel like a man who's been trying to climb up out of some deep, real deep and funky hole and just saw the sun up there, outside. I got to get outside

That's right," he said to the air, "how would he know what I mean?" He turned toward me again, patient and calm, and yet I somehow felt him shaking, shaking as though he were going to fall apart. I felt that ice in my guts again, the dread I'd felt all afternoon; and again I watched the barmaid, moving about the bar, washing glasses, and singing. "Listen. They'll let him out and then it'll just start all over again. That's what I mean.

They'll send him away some place and they'll try to cure him." He shook his head. "Maybe he'll even think he's kicked the habit. Then they'll let him loose"-he gestured, throwing his cigarette into the gutter. "That's all." "What do you mean, that's all?

I never give Sonny nothing," the boy said finally, "but a long time ago I come to school high and Sonny asked me how it felt." He paused, I couldn't bear to watch him, I watched the barmaid, and I listened to the music which seemed to be causing the pavement to shake. "I told him it felt great." The music stopped, the barmaid paused and watched the juke box until the music began again. "It did.

Funny thing," he said, and from his tone we might have been discussing the quickest way to get to Brooklyn, "when I saw the papers this morning, the first thing I asked myself was if I had anything to do with it. I felt sort of responsible.

Look. I haven't seen Sonny for over a year, I'm not sure I'm going to do anything. Anyway, what the hell can I do?

"What're you going to do?" he asked me. "I mean, about Sonny?

"You mean about Sonny? Yes, I already know about it. How come they didn't get you?"

He'd never been mine, having been too young for me, and, anyway, I'd never liked him. And now, even though he was a grown-up man, he still hung around that block, still spent hours on the street corners, was always high and raggy.

The courtyard was almost deserted by the time I got downstairs. I saw this boy standing in the shadow of a doorway, looking just like Sonny. I almost called his name.

I started collecting my stuff. I thought I'd better get home and talk to Isabel

My clothes were wet-I may have looked as though I'd been sitting in a steam bath, all dressed up, all afternoon. I sat alone in the classroom a long time. I listened to the boys outside, downstairs, shouting and cursing and laughing.

I was sure that the first time Sonny had ever had horse, he couldn't have been much older than these boys were now.

And he'd always been a good boy, he hadn't ever turned hard or evil or disrespectful, the way kids can, so quick, so quick, especially in Harlem.

I hadn't wanted to know. I had had suspicions, but I didn't name them, I kept putting them away.

A great block of ice got settled in my belly and kept melting there slowly all day long, while I taught my classes algebra.

and in my own face, trapped in the darkness which roared

So we drove along, between the green of the park and the stony, lifeless elegance of hotels and apartment buildings, toward the vivid, killing streets of our childhood. These streets hadn't changed, though housing projects jutted up out of them now like rocks in the middle of a boiling sea

This life, whatever it was, had made him older and thinner and it had deepened the distant stillness in which he had always moved. He looked very unlike my baby brother. Yet, when he smiled, when we shook hands, the baby brother I'd never known looked out from the depths of his private life, like an animal waiting to be coaxed into the light

Dear brother, You don't know how much I needed to hear from you. I wanted to write you many a time but I dug how much I must have hurt you and so I didn't write. But now I feel like a man who's been trying to climb up out of some deep, real deep and funky hole and just saw the sun up there, outside. I got to get outside

All at once something inside gave and threatened to come pouring out of me. I didn't hate him any more. I felt that in another moment I'd start crying like a child

"That's right," he said to the air, "how would he know what I mean?" He turned toward me again, patient and calm, and yet I somehow felt him shaking, shaking as though he were going to fall apart. I felt that ice in my guts again, the dread I'd felt all afternoon; and again I watched the barmaid, moving about the bar, washing glasses, and singing. "Listen. They'll let him out and then it'll just start all over again. That's what I mean."

"They'll send him away some place and they'll try to cure him." He shook his head. "Maybe he'll even think he's kicked the habit. Then they'll let him loose"-he gestured, throwing his cigarette into the gutter. "That's all." "What do you mean, that's all?

"I never give Sonny nothing," the boy said finally, "but a long time ago I come to school high and Sonny asked me how it felt." He paused, I couldn't bear to watch him, I watched the barmaid, and I listened to the music which seemed to be causing the pavement to shake. "I told him it felt great." The music stopped, the barmaid paused and watched the juke box until the music began again. "It did.

"Funny thing," he said, and from his tone we might have been discussing the quickest way to get to Brooklyn, "when I saw the papers this morning, the first thing I asked myself was if I had anything to do with it. I felt sort of responsible."

Look. I haven't seen Sonny for over a year, I'm not sure I'm going to do anything. Anyway, what the hell can I do?

"What're you going to do?" he asked me. "I mean, about Sonny?"

"You mean about Sonny? Yes, I already know about it. How come they didn't get you?"

He'd never been mine, having been too young for me, and, anyway, I'd never liked him. And now, even though he was a grown-up man, he still hung around that block, still spent hours on the street corners, was always high and raggy.

The courtyard was almost deserted by the time I got downstairs. I saw this boy standing in the shadow of a doorway, looking just like Sonny. I almost called his name.

I started collecting my stuff. I thought I'd better get home and talk to Isabel.

My clothes were wet-I may have looked as though I'd been sitting in a steam bath, all dressed up, all afternoon. I sat alone in the classroom a long time. I listened to the boys outside, downstairs, shouting and cursing and laughing.

I was sure that the first time Sonny had ever had horse, he couldn't have been much older than these boys were now.

And he'd always been a good boy, he hadn't ever turned hard or evil or disrespectful, the way kids can, so quick, so quick, especially in Harlem.

I hadn't wanted to know. I had had suspicions, but I didn't name them, I kept putting them away.

A great block of ice got settled in my belly and kept melting there slowly all day long, while I taught my classes algebra.

trapped in the darkness which roared outside