CALLED

by Brian Satrom

 

Then who’s that wandering by the porch
again and calling us by name?

—from “March Elegy” by Anna Akhmatova
translated by Stanley Kunitz and Max Hayward

 

There’s the way friends find him despite himself,
show up unannounced at his place, others

than the ones he thought would end up
as his friends, asking him to look

at a used car with them or come to Target because
they’re going. And his reflection in storefronts, 

echoes of his steps in hallways
of malls, conversation about him he overhears

at a party, all not what he expected,
versions of himself but not quite him

or more so, snippets taken, altered, remixed
as if by a DJ and thrust out. Like hearing

himself in songs, but the moments of recognition
more sudden, raw, the blood welling from a cut thumb,

a rancid smell from fish slime smeared on his jeans,
the call of a couple of geese foraging in the mud

of a half-flooded field, piercing, going through him
like he’s air. And the refinery on the river, its empty catwalks,

ladders, smell of sulfur, of burning and decay,
the continuous open flames prayers

for the future, though the choices have already been made,
whatever was to be done is done.

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