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Tropic of Squalor: Poems Page 4


  It was anybody’s son at the door

  in the dripping green slicker

  with the unsigned contract for selling my soul

  to Holy-wood for a sack of gold

  the mere taxes on which would’ve once

  lit my greedy eyes with cartoon

  dollar signs. The job was a trick I hoped

  to turn, having bankrupted myself on the dark,

  low-ceilinged box I lived in with plumbing from way

  before Roosevelt. And as I looked for a pen

  I asked him in, and he asked to snapshot

  what he saw as my posh digs with battered camera

  from a long lost pre-digital age. Cramming

  for his builder’s exam, he was, the terms

  cornice and chair rail were enchanted spells

  he was proud to master. And this

  new messenger job—which kept him weaving

  between cabs and buses on this

  thundered day, to stand in wet helmet

  in my foyer—beat like hell his last

  hauling bags of tacos up the graffitied

  halls of public housing. Better wage,

  better tips, nicer rooms to imagine

  he might hammer together once

  he got certified. He rode off in a zigzag,

  dodging a bus that belched smoke.

  You won’t believe his name was Jesus,

  and I’d been weeks entreating the iron gray

  sky to see specifically Him. O Lord, last seen

  on battered mountain bike, green wings extended

  behind in wind, come back, make me rich again.

  Coda Toward the New New Covenant: Death Sentence

  (for Father Joseph Kane)

  We lean close when the dying speak

  though instinct says recoil from

  the decaying form, but silence

  radiates off them and blooms our loud

  selves out, out, out of the way, and we long

  to know what from each essential

  self will exhale over us, and if we every

  single one of us (it would only work

  if we all agreed) listened to our own

  deaths growing inside us geologically

  slow inching forward as the skull

  will someday edge through skin, then we would

  each speak only the truest lines:

  I’ve always loved you.

  Acknowledgments

  Ever grateful for my editrix, Jennifer Barth at HarperCollins, who keeps pages rolling out. Ditto for readers like Rodney Crowell, Betty Sue Flowers, Sarah Harwell, Brooks Haxton, Terrance Hayes, Amy Koppelman, Herb Leibowitz, Paul Muldoon, Sarah Paley, and George Saunders.

  Thanks also to the following publishers:

  The New Yorker: “The Organ Donor’s License Has a Black Check,” “Illiterate Progenitor,” “Recuperation from the Dead Love Through Christ and Isaac Babel” (published here as “Petering: Recuperation from the Sunk Love Under the Aegis of Christ and Isaac Babel”), “Face Down,” “Carnegie Hall Rush Seats.”

  Poetry: “Loony Bin Basketball,” “The Burning Girl,” “Read These,” “Suicide’s Note: An Annual,” “The Obscenity Prayer,” “Awe and Disorder,” “The Blessed Mother Complains to the Lord Her God about the Abundance of Brokenness She Receives,” “A Perfect Mess.”

  Parnassus: “Animal Planet,” “Bolt Action,” “The Age of Criticism.”

  Commonweal: “The Voice of God,” “The Devil’s Delusion,” “Messenger.”

  Ploughshares: “Psalm for Riding a Plane” (published here as “Notes from the Underground”).

  About the Author

  MARY KARR’s four books of poetry include: Sinners Welcome, Viper Rum, The Devil’s Tour, and Abacus. Her poetry secured her fellowships from the Guggenheim, the NEA, and the Bunting Institute at Radcliffe College. She’s published three bestselling memoirs credited with kick-starting a renaissance in the form—Lit, Cherry, and The Liars’ Club—as well as The Art of Memoir, which was also a New York Times bestseller. Her Syracuse graduation speech, published as Now Go Out There, lit up the Twittersphere. Her Americana song collaboration with country hunk Rodney Crowell, Kin, reached number one on the charts and was a Grammy finalist. Her book on aging, Just You Wait, is in progress.

  Karr is the Peck Professor of Literature at Syracuse University and commutes there from New York City, where she is grandmother to a pit bull.

  Discover great authors, exclusive offers, and more at hc.com.

  Also by Mary Karr

  Now Go Out There

  The Art of Memoir

  Lit

  Sinners Welcome

  Cherry

  Viper Rum

  The Liars’ Club

  The Devil’s Tour

  Abacus

  Copyright

  TROPIC OF SQUALOR. Copyright © 2018 by Mary Karr. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.

  Cover designed by Robin Bilardello

  Cover photograph © Hal Morey/Stringer/Getty Images

  FIRST EDITION

  Digital Edition MAY 2018 ISBN: 978-0-06-269984-8

  Version 04062018

  Print ISBN: 978-0-06-269982-4

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