Washing the Elephant
Today it struck me how stupidly brave it is to eat alone in a cafe, when you can only order by pointing at the menu. Where do you avert your eyes? What do you do with your hands while you’re waiting for your food? What will the waiter think when you order a second glass of wine?
I ate today at Rodi Bar, near Recoleta. I didn’t have my book, so I spent the entire time flipping through my moleskin, going through old notes about movies that I wanted to see, books that I wanted to read, and clippings that I had torn out of the New Yorker. As I idled, I came upon this poem by Barbara Ras, which I think is lovely:
WASHING THE ELEPHANT
Isn’t it always the heart that wants to wash
the elephant, begging the body to do it
with soap and water, a ladder, hands,
in tree shade big enough for the vast savannas
of your sadness, the strangler fig of your guilt,
the cratered full moon’s light fuelling
the windy spooling memory of an elephant?
What if Father Quinn had said, “Of course you’ll recognize
your parents in Heaven,” instead of
“Being one with God will make your mother and father
pointless.” That was back when I was young enough
to love them absolutely though still fear for their place
in Heaven, imagining their souls like sponges full
of something resembling street water after rain.
Still my mother sent me every Saturday to confess,
to wring the sins out of my small baffled soul, and I made up lies
about lying, disobeying, chewing gum in church, to offer them
as carefully as I handed over the knotted handkerchief of coins
to the grocer when my mother sent me for a loaf of Wonder,
Land of Lakes, and two Camels.
If guilt is the damage of childhood, then eros is the fall of
adolescence.
Or the fall begins there, and never ends, desire after desire
parading
through a lifetime like the Ringling Brothers elephants
made to walk through the Queens-Midtown Tunnel
and down Thirty-fourth Street to the Garden.
So much of our desire like their bulky, shadowy walking
after midnight, exiled from the wild and destined
for a circus with its tawdry gaudiness, its unspoken
pathos.
It takes more than half a century to figure out who they were,
the few real loves-of-your-life, and how much of the rest—
the made breaking-heart stickiness—falls away, slowly,
unnoticed, the way you lose your taste for things
like popsicles unthinkingly.
And though dailiness may have no place
for the ones who have etched themselves in the laugh lines
and frown lines on the face that’s harder and harder
to claim as your own, often one love-of-your-life
will appear in a dream, arriving
with the weight and certitude of an elephant,
and it’s always the heart that wants to go out and wash
the huge mysteriousness of what they meant, those memories
that have only memories to feed them, and only you to keep them
clean.
I read the poem again and again, finding new meaning every time, until I paid the check. Then I left the silence of the cafe and went back to the world, to the drumming of construction, the hum of late afternoon traffic, and the tragedy of a cemetery full of names forgotten, moldering bodies, cold stones.
