Carolyn Forche - Reunion

REUNION

Just as he changes himself, in the end eternity changes him. -Mallarme

On the phonograph, the voice
of a woman already dead for three
decades, singing of a man
who could make her do anything.
On the table, two fragile
glasses of black wine,
a bottle wrapped in its towel.
It is that room, the one
we took in every city, it is
as I remember: the bed, a block
of moonlight and pillows.
My fingernails, pecks of light
on your thighs.
The stink of the fire escape.
The wet butts of cigarettes
you crushed one after another.
How I watched the morning come
as you slept, more my son
than a man ten years older.
How my breasts feel, years
later, the tongues swishing
in my dress, some yours, some
left by other men.
Since then, I have always
wakened first, I have learned
to leave a bed without being
seen and have stood
at the washbasins, wiping oil
and salt from my skin,
staring at the cupped water
in my two hands.
I have kept everything
you whispered to me then.
I can remember it now as I see you
again, how much tenderness we could
wedge between a stairwell
and a police lock, or as it was,
as it still is, in the voice
of a woman singing of a man
who could make her do anything.

--- Carolyn Forche

Carolyn Forche’s Reunion

Remember when… and Mark my words, someday I’m gonna…In bars around our country these words are spoken every night. Hell, you might have even started off a conversation with on one of these phrases. We’re fascinated by the future and mesmerized by the past. Human beings are a species that wants what they can’t have. While it’s easy to extol the virtues of living in the present and being satisfied with the tiniest of victories, it’s nearly impossible to live this way. The future represents the unknown possibilities---transformations and changes. Dreams are the future’s currency. The past is controllable, yet we can shift it to suit our present needs. Memories are the past’s currency. When you think about it, dreams and memories are kin (more so brothers or sisters than cousins or step siblings). Reunion is a poem about memories and in Carolyn Forche’s case they are more than objects or lessons; they are her rules.

As I’ve mentioned in a few of the other essays this month, in many of my favorite poems I find techniques on display that I’m envious of as a writer. Carolyn Forche creates an impeccable list in this poem. Many poets take inventory of the world around them. It’s natural to look around us and gather our surroundings. The literary equivalent of slowly turning in a circle with a steadied gaze is to compose a list, drawing heavily upon the senses in the composition. Often, I’ve written a poem with what I considered to be a tremendously intricate list, only to find that it was just that, nothing more. Forche’s list is more than a list. It is, as we learn by the poem’s end, her dearest fragments of life.

Forche constantly builds in this poem. The phonograph emits not just a voice, but “the voice / of a woman already dead for three / decades.” It does not stop there---she’s “singing of a man / who could make her do anything.” The poem’s list, still in its infancy, has already taken on the weight that will ground it in a circumstance for a specific set of characters. Like the phonograph singer, Forche’s speaker is confronting (the memories of) a man who made her do anything. She’s testing herself to see if she’s grown beyond him, or if she’s still wandering in his labrynth.

The list continues with glasses, wine, a bottle, the room itself, and a reference to all the cities they “took.” This is where the list, like the Incredible Hulk, breaks from the ordinary clothes that confine it. Notice how the poem (and the list) proceeds: “the bed, a block / of moonlight and pillows. / My fingernails, pecks of light / on your thighs. / The stink of the fire escape. / The wet butts of cigarettes / you crushed one after another.” Forche carefully places opposites beside each other in this list to create tension and highlight the differences. She moves us from the beauty of light on thighs to the putrid smell of the fire escape. It is a jarring shift, but it prepares us for another jarring shift a few lines later: “How I watched the morning come / as you slept, more my son / than a man ten years older. / How my breasts feel, years / later, the tongues swishing / in my dress, some yours, some / left by other men.” The list has certainly done its job. The strange combination of objects early on has set the table for developing images that challenge us to understand the depth of the speaker’s relationship with this formative man. She wants to give him his due, and at the same time she wants to make him aware that she grew after him, because of him.

Forche seems to have chosen to shape the poem toward revenge. Years have tempered her rage so that it's exact, informed, and ruthless. She comments, “ Since then, I have always / wakened first, I have learned / to leave a bed without being / seen and have stood / at the washbasins, wiping oil / and salt from my skin,” as if these are skills he has taught her, skills she has unfortunately acquired in a process much like osmosis or guilt by association. Just when there seems to be nothing positive coming from the memory of him, Forche turns the poem yet again. This is a reunion, after all, and uniting again should allow for some closure, or at least an understanding of why closure has been elusive over the years. In many ways the end of this poem is remarkable. Take a close look at what happens in the last 10 lines or so: “I have kept everything / you whispered to me then. / I can remember it now as I see you / again, how much tenderness we could / wedge between a stairwell / and a police lock, or as it was, / as it still is, in the voice / of a woman singing of a man / who could make her do anything.” She is looking to the past, again. Already, her past with this man has created the tenets that she lives by. They may not be spectacular or even reasonable, but they are things he passed to her through their shared experiences. They are ways she can live with him now, even though they are apart. The reunion that this poem hinges upon is devious in the way it resumes what once existed between the speaker and this man. The spellbound song that once resonated from the phonograph now resonates from the speaker, but in both cases---the past and the present---the song is the same.