I'm Not Here Most Days by Terry Anderson

I'm Not Here Most Days

I'm not here most days.
I stumble wearily through Indochinese jungle,
soaked with sweat and fear, trembling with
adrenalined excitement, peering through thick brush
for unimpressive men with impressive, hating eyes.
I sit slouched in a Bangkok bar, toying idly with
the midnight curls that top Thai beauty,
listening to soft, coaxing, broken English,
she and I both eager to trade her small perfections
for my dollars, fulfilling needs and greeds for both.

I leap exultantly from a Cessna's step,
defying body fear, flinging arms wide,
stilling with my will the frantic urge;
feeling wind rush, watching earth hurl madly at me
till finally I let my fingers fly
and wait one heart-stop for the wrench
and swing and sudden quiet,
my still-incredulous body swinging in the straps.

Sometimes I sit cross-legged
in Enkakuji's ancient calm,
watching, listening,
feeling the carp swarm silently,
jostling, bumping, round mouths flexing
as I tap the feeding call with a pebble
on the flat stone step.

I lie on Levantine sand, pale next to
the near-chocolate of my other self;
no Asian almond eyes, but huge Semitic ones,
dark with love, not kohl; proud Saracen nose
shouting of towers, and Damascus,
red lips, white teeth whispering of
pomegranates, and ivory.

I'm not chained; there's no steel door,
no bitterness, no anger; those are
much less real than these.
There's pain in past and present both,
but there is also joy, and love.

I'm not here most days.

by Terry Anderson

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