Excerpts from Postcards to Juliana by Alan DeNiro
Orleans, VTFirst of many. I know it's been three years
since you've heard from me. I'm now in the Northeast
Kingdom laying low in a sugar shack,
trying to convince myself to go west.
Why? Are you surprised I can't answer you?
Perhaps to give me a reason to write you,
sort this head out before I get too old.
So I sold my things, moved for a whole month
up here, eating poor, writing worse haiku
about the elm wilting in the side lot.
Tomorrow, I'm gone, so until later
I scribble my love and etcs.Syracuse, NY
The last time I was here I was just two,
kicking the front seat on the six hour drive.
Don't remember a thing, but imagine
this--great aunts and uncles in a dim room,
lamplight aching for more than light & in
the corner, a small man with a black cap
grinning, coughing, ignored. Only I could
see him. He was my grandfather, he died
twelve years before I was born, homesick for
Campobasso, the brown jaw of the hills . . .
It sounds good, doesn't it? But you know me
too well to let me live on that. You know
I can improvise that night every night.Bradford, PA
- Zippo World Headquarters
Nothing much, no Bogart lurking outside
the feed store, no Flynn gracefully sipping
coffee inside the diner with a smoke.
I found this out today: in the 50s
a Zippo was removed from the belly
of a fish. It lit on the first attempt.
Somehow, I want to become that lighter:
impenetrable, able to give fire
when fire is needed, quick to extinguish.
Would you want this? To slip me in your palm
for good? Or to throw me far in the sea
& wait for me to reappear inside
a fish, as Jonah bearing strong light?Ottumwa, IA
Look, I don't care if the postman reads this.
Some would choose to conceal these words, slip
them in paper-doll clothes & shoo them off
to find you. But the postcard is naked,
and never lies, even when a landscape
seduces on the front. & now, I wish
the same thing, to uncover myself here--
stuck in this concrete motel room, traffic
light outside rattling like a vowel, the trains
in slow rust beside the slaughterhouse--
the need to pull you towards this map is strong.
Here's a token of my good faith: Unpeel
the stamp. Is the back still warm to the touch?Aberdeen, SD
Well, it sounded interesting but tough
luck I guess. No bagpipes or kilters here.
I even tried some rusty Scots Gaelic
on a truck stop waitress. I think I scared
her off. She dropped my check on my table
like a medicine ball & nearly ran
to the kitchen, cursing under her breath.
It's strange how easy I shoot off my mouth.
I still miss Scotland, though. Miss haggis for
Christ's sake. Don't laugh. In some towns in the plains
there is probably a child with a kilt
waving to a passing car just as I
write this, calling out slainte, chi mi thu.Note: slainte, chi mi thu: good luck, see you soon
Rifle, CO
Yes, the mesa is this big. It was hell
on these slick, thin roads; already April
but the ice hasn't hibernated yet.
Talked to a diner cashier for a while.
She was Argentine, fed me her spiced eggs
and told me how much Rifle reminds her
of Salta, the way light breaks from the sky,
scatters past the peaks through the cold thin air.
I'll compare my notes if I reach Salta . . .
I'm writing this on the side of a gas
station, stamping my heels. The sun is caught
in halo, a cage of its light. Didn't
you tell me once there is some luck in that?
