three poems
By Alan Horvath
From Measured Steps 2004

 

another world encapsulated by the night, we are cradled in our bed surrounded by the sounds of a fan across the room. you are curled as small as possible with the comforters tightly tucked against your neck. in this dim light I can barely see the details of your face: tiny black lashes doing the dance of sleep, furrowed brows trying to see deeper into a dream. I am merely inches away from your face in another world listening to you breathe. your body releases a wave of warmth. it is this heat that addicts my life. not that I need the temperature, my craving is for the body that conveys it. I wrap my left arm around you to hold onto this life-force, to protect you from your demons as well as all my own.   someone I knew she always hears music. the sound surrounds her. I meet her at the panhandle of golden gate park. we drive south on 19th avenue through the morning commute to our temporary assignments on the peninsula. we discuss herb caen's chronicle column & events of the day. now I have an additional focus to my daily routine: I read the newspaper & listen to the radio in anticipation of my carpool rider. other than these topics, we have nothing in common. she lives in the decay of the haight district & views it as this mystical place which it was many layers of decomposition ago. moving to san francisco from someplace in the east, she knows that the haight is the center of any universe which she would want to inhabit. at work we rarely speak, but at 5 o'clock we are in my car & traveling north into the traffic jam on highway 101. today she is talking about her boyfriend whom she calls "ton." I wonder it tony's nickname represents a stereo's pitch controls — like "bass" & "treble." no, she replies: it's more like "wow" & "flutter." the music means the most. everything is music & the haight has the best. when her assignment reaches its conclusion, she is terminated. no longer do I circle the panhandle waiting for her to appear. I find myself alone in rush hour congestion. a few months later, I return to my regular job in the city. a friend tells me that tony killed nancy. he beat her over the head with a telephone & twisted the chord around her neck until she was dead. he wrapped her body in a rug & planned to throw her from the building's roof. when the landlord spotted him in the stairwell, tony dropped the rug & disappeared into the rot on the street. I never heard how many people attended her funeral:      some people pass through      & are blown away like dust. in her life, nancy could hear screaming guitars emanating from somewhere down the hall & had to follow.   trapped I am buried in a vault 30 feet below the surface of the earth. I do not know why no one has rescued me, but nobody has tried to free me from my confinement. instead, they use me to help other people who have fallen deeper than me. I navigate the tunnels that I have dug to reach those who have accidentally slipped down abandoned mine shafts or old septic systems. I offer the victims water & the hope that the rescuers are on their way. within hours, the trapped are usually saved, but they leave without taking me. red cross volunteers lower buckets of big macs & boxes of books to keep me entertained. moles & rabbits have become my closest friends. they check to see if I have enough air & sufficient drainage so that I can be as comfortable as possible while I wait to be released. already the squirrels have stockpiled a mound of nuts for me to snack on. they are teaching me the rules of my new world. I must make certain that I stay below the frost line            winter is coming.   Return to Index for Alan Horvath Memorial Return to Light and Dust Anthology